

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 

©|ap.lSJ? Capijrigtjt T)a, 

Shelf, £ l»A-S Me, 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



























































































MEDICINE LADY 


BY 


L. T.jMEADE 

AUTHOR OF “OUT OF THE FASHIOtf,” “ A SWEET GIRL GRADUATE,” “ POLLY, 




A NEW-FASHIONED GIRL,” “A WORLD 


i OF GIRLS,” ETC. 


\ 

* 


NEW YORK 


• ;>?.V OF C0^> 

OCT i 1892 

%' Of WASHlW ^r^ 

(L 


CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

104 & 106 Fourth Avenue 



Copyright, 1892, by 
CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY. 


All rights reserved. 


THE MER8HON COMPANY PRESS, 
RAHWAY, N. J. 


CONTENTS 


Book I. — Doctors and Probationers. 

CHAPTER 

I. Number Three, 

PAGE 

1 

II. 

Left Hands and Thumbs, 

7 

m. 

With the Out-patients, 

. 16 

IV. 

A Willing Scapegoat, 

22 

V. 

The Heturn of a Bad Penny, 

. 32 

VI. 

The House Physician, 

39 

VII. 

A Test and a Result, 

. 50 

VIII. 

A Happy Thought, 

62 

IX. 

An Impulsive Inmate, 

. 69 

X. 

Beelzebub, 

75 

XI. 

A Convenient Eavesdropper, .... 

. 82 

XII. 

Spring in Winter, 

86 


Book II.— The House of Humbugs. 


I. 

Forty-eight Hartrick Street, .... 

. 99 

II. 

Heredity, 

109 

III. 

Brains or Money, 

. 115 

IV. 

Digby’s Discovery, 

122 

V. 

The Window Dodge, 

. 132 

VI. 

The Road to Success, 

140 

VII. 

The Parlor Maid at Forty- eight, 

. 147 

VIII. 

The Doctor’s Carriage, 

154 

IX. 

Turn, Fortune, Turn Thy Wheel, 

. 163 


iii 


iv 

CONTENTS . 


Book III.— Dr. Digby. 

CHAPTER 

I. Motives 

PAGE 

167 

II. 

Two Doctors and Two Patients, .... 

. 179 

III. 

The Talk of the Club, 

189 

IY. 

Phillips’s Evil Genius, 

. 205 

Y. 

A Wild Hide, 

216 

YI. 

Waiting by the Golden Gates, .... 

. 230 

VII. 

“ I was ever a Fighter,” 

241 

VIII. 

In Digby’s Consulting Room, 

. 244 


Book IV. — Temptation. 


I. 

The Left-Hand Drawer, 

257 

II. 

Mrs. Digby Acts with Promptitude, 

. 267 

III. 

Ought Consumptive People to Marry ? 

273 

IY. 

The Old School of Medicine, .... 

. 286 

Y. 

A Living Secret, 

292 

VI. 

The Curse of the Fathers, 

. 303 

VII. 

Changes, 

314 

VIII. 

Beautiful Life, . . . . 

. 324 

IX. 

Was She an Angel from Heaven ? . . . 

335 

X. 

Victory, 

. 345 


Book V. — The Valley of the Shadow. 


I. 

Man against Woman, . . . . . 

351 

II. 

One Woman’s Curse, 

. 358 

III. 

Disappearance, 

368 

IV. 

The White Angel, 

. 370 

V. 

Cough-away-Patty, 

386 

VI. 

The Worth of a Kiss, 

. 390 

VII. 

The Voices in the Child’s Room, 

397 

VIII. 

Judged, 

. 402 

IX. 

Atonement, 


X. 

Where Many Roads Meet, 

. 424 


THE MEDICINE LADY 


JSooli I.— Doctors and probationers. 


CHAPTER I. 

NUMBER THREE. 

It was in the early winter of 1870, on a certain night in 
the dreary month of November, that a small incident occurred 
in the children’s ward of St. Christopher’s Hospital, East 
London, which affected the lives and destinies of several 
people. 

There was nothing particularly exciting in the incident it- 
self; it is only worth recording because it commenced a some- 
what remarkable story. 

In the month of November the children’s ward at St. Chris- 
topher’s was always full. On this particular night there were 
no empty cots, each had its occupant. The night nurse who 
had charge of the ward had gone her rounds, and tucked up each 
small patient. She had not kissed any of them, for that was 
not her way. She was an excellent nurse, highly trained, and 
thought a great deal of for her skill, her promptitude, her 
nerve, but she was not tender, nor did she draw out the affec- 
tions of any of her little patients. 

Sister Agatha walked down each side of the long ward, and 
then, satisfied that all the cases were doing well, she sat down 
in her own particular comfortable chair, and opening a book 
began to read by the light of a shaded lamp. She was wait- 
ing for the house physician to make bis rounds. He might 
come into the ward at any moment ; on the other hand he 
might be engaged with important cases in other parts of the 


2 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


great hospital, and so be unable to put in an appearance for 
an hour or two. 

Sister Agatha opened her book, and began to read comfort- 
ably. The children were all going to sleep. The critical 
cases had taken turns for the better; the convalescents were 
fast returning to health. She breathed a sigh of thankfulness 
as this thought swept through her mind, for she took a deep 
professional interest in all the children in her ward. It was 
to her credit that they should get well; she hated to hear any 
of the other nurses say that Sister Agatha had lost one of her 
cases. Such a fact hurt her pride and took from her prestige. 
She was not an affectionate woman, but perhaps it was her 
pride of spirit, perhaps her intense devotion to duty, which 
made her the most trusted and valued nurse in the whole great 
hospital. 

As she sat and read, a door at one end of the w T ard was 
softly opened, and a slim girl dressed in the dark plain uni- 
form of a probationer entered. She cast a swift anxious 
glance at the ward nurse, who sat far away with her shaded 
lamp at the other end of the great room. Then tripping 
noiselessly across the ward she approached a little cot, went 
down on her knees by the side of the bed, and took a child’s 
hot hand between both her own. 

“How are you feeling now, Tommy?” she asked. Her 
voice was scarcely above a whisper. The child whom she ad- 
dressed could barely be distinguished in the subdued light of 
the ward. His eyes were shut when the nurse spoke to him. 
He opened them wide at her question, stared at her, smiled, 
and pursed up his lips for a kiss. 

“Tommy so tired,” he murmured. He shut his eyes again, the 
faint, sweet, patient smile still lingering round his baby face. 

The nurse put her hand very softly on the child’s forehead 
— it burned. She felt the pulse in the tiny wrist — it beat so 
fast as to be almost past counting. She listened to the breath- 
ing, which was shallow and rapid. The child seemed afraid 
to move his limbs, his hot lips were dry with thirst and a 
painfully anxious expression quickly 'chased the smile from 
his small face. 

After a moment’s reflection the nurse rose from her kneel- 
ing position, and went quickly down the ward. She walked 
so deftly that not a board creaked. Her movements were 
rapid her face worked as if she were about to cry, and there 
was a suppressed passion in her voice. 


NUMBER THREE. 


3 


“ Sister Agatha, little Tommy is very ill had I not better 
fetch Dr. Digby?” 

When the nurse spoke in her agitated, almost broken voice, 
Sister Agatha threw down the book she was reading, and 
looked at her with a long full stare. 

“Number Two or Number Three? What number do you 
refer to? I don’t know whom you mean by Tommy.” 

“The baby, the little fellow of three, Tommy Constantine, 
who has acute rheumatism — he is worse.” 

“Indeed! I did not know you had qualified as a physician. 
May I ask what you are doing in my ward at this hour, Nurse 
Harvey?” 

“I felt anxious about Tommy.” 

“Will you have the goodness to return to your own duties, 
and allow me to attend to mine?” 

The girl’s face turned very white, her lips quivered, she 
attempted to say something, but words failed her. Sister 
Agatha’s calm gray eyes had a crushing effect. Nurse Har- 
vey turned slowly and left the ward. 

“I hate those lady nurses,” whispered the Sister to herself. 
“They are all alike — all absolutely unfitted for the work. 
What can a mixture of nerves add sentiment do in a children’s 
ward in East London? We want people of harder, firmer 
caliber here. I can’t say I like that girl. The sooner she 
leaves the better. It is a piece of unwarrantable impertinence 
on her part to come and report to me on my own patient’s 
case. What can she know about sick children ? She has only 
been here a month. Tommy Constantine was going on as 
well as possible when I tucked him up and turned his pillow 
half an hour ago.” 

Sister Agatha’s calm face looked quite flushed with annoy- 
ance. She opened her book and went on reading. The book 
was interesting, and she had been quite pleasantly entertained 
with its contents a few minutes ago. Now her attention was 
diverted. Notwithstanding her calm she could not help giv- 
ing a thought to the youngest and prettiest child in the ward. 
After a moment’s struggle with her pride, for surely Number 
Three must be going on well, she rose, and, shaded lamp in 
hand, went to pay the baby of the ward a visit. 

When Sister Agatha looked at Tommy he had so completely 
changed his position that she could not get a glimpse of his 
face ; she only saw a tangled mass of bright hair above the 
bed-clothes. 


4 


THE MEDICINE LADT. 


She spoke the child’s name softly, he did not stir. 

“I won’t wake him,” she said to herself. “It’s just as I 
thought. The little fellow is feverish, of course, but there 
are no alarming symptoms. That tiresome girl must be taught 
to know her place. I shall speak to her most severely to- 
morrow. She committed a distinct breach of discipline when 
she came into my ward after the children were settled for the 
night.” 

The Sister returned to her seat. Her calm face was still 
slightly flushed, and it was with a decided sigh of relief that 
she heard a quick step in the corridor outside. 

The door of the children’s ward was opened briskly but 
noiselessly, and the house physican came in. 

He was a tall, loosely built man, with a keen expression on 
his eager face and filling his bright deepset eyes. 

Sister Agatha came forward at once to greet him. 

“You are later than usual, Dr. Digby,” she said. “I am 
glad you have come at last.” 

“Iam sorry to have kept you waiting, Sister,” he replied. 
“I was delayed by some rather pressing cases in one of the 
men’s wards. Now, what about the lambs of the flock? Are 
they doing well?” 

“Yes,” answered Sister Agatha. Her “yes” had the faint- 
est tinge of uncertainty in it. Her thoughts went like a flash 
to Tommy Constantine. A quick half fear darted through 
her heart. Was the baby with the bright hair really worse? 

Sister Agatha felt half inclined to say something special 
about Tommy to the doctor, but pride kept her silent. 

It was too ridiculous to attach any consequence to the words 
of that silly young probationer. Sister Agatha had herself 
seen Number Three a moment ago. He was feverish, of 
course, his breathing was hurried, but he was sound asleep. 
The disease from which he was suffering must take its course; 
there were, she felt sure, no complications. 

Her hesitating “yes” was followed by cheerful words. 

“I have a good report to give you this evening, Dr. Digby. 
The children are most of them asleep, and, I may confidently 
say, they are all somewhat better than when you saw them 
last.” 

“That is well,” replied the doctor. “We will go round 
the ward now, Sister.” 

His voice was a little brusque, although pleasant in tone. 

The doctor and the nurse began the round of the ward. 


NUMBER THREE. 


5 


Sister Agatha went first, carrying her shaded lamp. Dr. 
Digby followed. 

By most of the cots he only lingered long enough to glance 
at the temperature card which hung beside each cot; in a few 
cases he laid his great strong hand for a passing instant on a 
little forehead. 

The expression of approval on his face grew more marked 
as he passed each bed. 

“Doing well — doing capitally,” was his comment to the 
nurse. 

The house physician’s few words were always highly valued, 
and Sister Agatha’s placid face almost shone with satisfaction. 

Just then there came a sound which startled the doctor 
and nurse. 

It was the smothered, but agonized cry, of a child waking 
suddenly out of sleep. 

Dr. Digby hurried with two strides to the cot from which 
the sound proceeded. Sister Agatha, lamp in hand, followed 
him as quickly as she could. 

Tommy Constantine’s blue eyes were wide open, and he 
was uttering feeble shriek after shriek in mingled pain and 
terror. 

The next moment the terrified sobs stopped — a smile 
quivered round the pretty little mouth, and the eyes became 
all aflame with love and happiness. • 

The tall young probationer had once again, unbidden, en- 
tered the ward. She came up to Tommy, knelt by him, 
kissed his forehead, and held his hot hands in hers. 

Her probationer’s cap, insecurely fastened, fell back from 
her head, revealing its noble contour, and showing a flash 
of sunshine in the hair, which was nearly as bright as the 
baby’s. 

Sister Agatha’s eyes gave forth a steely gleam of wrath at 
Nurse Harvey, but Dr. Digby spoke approvingly. 

“You are fond of this little fellow, Nurse?” he said. “That 
is well. Stay with him by all means. Sister Agatha” — the 
doctor’s voice unconsciously took a stern tone — “this child is 
very much worse. I should have been summoned before. 
There is a sudden development of fluid in the pericardium.” 
The doctor applied the stethoscope as he spoke ; he was silent 
for a moment, listening to the sounds which proceeded from 
the child’s laboring chest. 

“There is a most marked impediment to the heart’s action,” 


6 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


he said, “and the temperature is very high. I do not like the 
child’s condition at all— it will be necessary to relieve the 
pressure at once. I will go and fetch my aspirator, and be 
back in a moment.” 

He left the ward. Sister Agatha put down her shaded lamp, 
and went to make one or two necessary preparations. Her 
face did not show an atom of emotiop. The probationer 
went on holding the sick child’s hands, her bright head bent a 
little lower, and a little lower, until it touched the lovely 
little head on the pillow. 

Dr. Digby came back with the surgical instrument neces- 
sary for performing the operation. It contained a long 
needle, which was meant to pierce the pericardium, or bag 
which surrounds the heart, and get at the fluid which would 
soon suffocate the little victim. There were tubes and a 
bottle attached to the needle. 

“Get up,” said Sister Agatha to Nurse Harvey. “Don’t 
make a fool of yourself, with your cap off, too!” she contin- 
ued in a whisper. “Kneel here where you can hold the 
bottle for the doctor. I will take Tommy’s hands in mine.” 

“I can’t witness an operation,” said the probationer sud- 
denly. “If there’s to be an operation, I’ll run away and 
come back soon. I — I — can’t witness it ! I — I — never could 
bear to look at suffering!” 

“Don’t be silly,” said ’Dr. Digby, in a kind, firm voice. 
“Moments are precious; your help is needed. You have 
nerve, I am sure. Exercise it. Forget yourself.” 

His voice was bracing — his qiuck, kind glance was even 
more bracing. The probationer took the ^bottle attached to 
the aspirator in her trembling hands. The doctor instructed 
her where to kneel, and made the necessary preparations for 
the operation. 

“Now, Tommy,” he said, “be a man. I’m going to hurt 
you a little. Afterward you will be ever so much better. 
You’ll feel jolly after I’ve done — now Tommy.” 

Tommy’s blue eyes were transfixed with horror. He looked 
piteously at Sister Agatha, who held his small hot hands 
firmly, then glanced down with a world of baby appeal at 
Nurse Harvey. 

She was not looking at him. She did not dare to look. 
She was having at that moment such a desperate fight with 
herself that she had scarcely time to give a thought to another 
human creature. She was determined not to faint; she bit 


LEFT HANDS AND THUMBS. 


7 


her lips to keep back the mortal weakness which was assailing 
her. Her heart thumped in her ears with great thuds of 
thunder; her eyes refused to see; cold perspiration broke out 
on her forehead. 

Still guided by the physician’s voice, which came dimly to 
her above the thunder of her beating heart, she held the 
bottle which was to save Tommy’s life. 

“I won’t faint — no — no — it will soon be over. What good 
am I if I can’t do this much, and for Tommy — for Tommy, 
whom I love ! I always fainted before — when mother broke 
that blood vessel — when I heard that father was dead. No, 
no — I’m not going to faint this time. I feel just the same, 
but I won’t, I’m determined I won’t! What I dread is 
Tommy’s cry when the doctor runs that awful bodkin into 
his little body. But perhaps I shan’t hear it. My heart 
beats so loudly that perhaps it will drown Tommy’s cry. 
Perhaps he has made his cry, and the pain is over. Oh, if 
I could but look! But I daren’t, I daren’t!” 

“Hold the bottle a little higher up, Nurse,” said the doctor. 
His voice was very stern. Nurse Harvey made a gigantic 
effort to obey him. 

“Tommy’s cry must be over,” she said to herself. But it 
wasn’t. It came like the sharp directness of lightning, 
dividing the thunderous sounds in her ears. Tommy’s cr^ 
seemed, to Nurse Harvey, like the wail of a murdered child. 

“How cruel and wicked you are to torture a baby like that !” 
she said, suddenly finding her voice, throwing down the 
bottle, rising to her feet, and confronting Dr. Digby with 
blazing eyes. 

Tommy uttered another shriek, fainter and more anguished 
than the first, and the probationer lay in an unconscious heap 
on the floor by the side of the cot. 


CHAPTER II. 

LEFT HANDS AND THUMBS. 

There were some whispered comments among the other 
nurses on the following morning when Nurse Harvey, with 
swollen eyelids and a deathly pale face, made her appearance 
at breakfast. 

Nurse Harvey was not very popular at St. Christopher’s. 


8 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


The other probationers spoke of her as a proud miss, stuck 
up and haughty. They said she took airs on herself, and 
attached much importance to the fact that she was a lady by 
birth. 

In 1870 lady nurses in our great hospitals were rather excep- 
tions than rules. They were few and far between. When a 
lady did venture to offer herself to be trained as nurse in one 
of the hospitals, she had, in every way, a more severe ordeal 
to go through than her less refined sisters. 

Twenty years ago it was not a recognized fact, as it is now, 
that highly strung nerves and a refined sensitive nature are 
often accompanied by the noblest courage, the readiest tact, 
the calmest exterior. It was supposed a good plan, so long 
ago as 1870, for nurses to be thoroughly trained, but to belong 
to the middle class. Doctors and patients both preferred the 
nurse who was not a lady by birth, and, in consequence, the 
girl who was gently born, and took this walk in life as her 
vocation, had, as a rule, a very bad time of it. 

She had this bad time even if she was peculiarly fitted for 
her post, but when, as in Nurse Harvey’s case, the nerves 
were not well under control and the courage was apt to disap- 
pear at the most critical juncture, it was scarcely likely that 
her life in a London hospital would be agreeable. 

The incidents of the night before had leaked out, no one 
knew how. Sister Agatha had herself carried Nurse Harvey 
to her bedroom, and left her there to recover as best she 
could. No one had seen Sister Agatha toiling under her 
burden, still the news of Nurse Harvey’s disgraceful want of 
courage, of her shameful, cowardly faint, of her abuse of 
the much adored house physician, and of the danger into 
which she had brought little Number Three in the children’s 
ward, were all subjects of common talk. 

The other probationers nudged each other when Nurse 
Harvey walked quietly into the breakfast room. They talked 
at her a good deal, and now and then giggled with a pleasing 
sense of their own superiority. 

“Shouldn’t I like to have been there, just!” said Nurse 
Elliot, a dumpling-faced girl, to her favorite friend, Nurse 
Fry. “Fancy being asked to help him!” 

Nurse Fry laughed loudly. 

“Perhaps Nurse Harvey was overpowered by the honor,” 
she said. “Perhaps it was the honor of helping Dr. Digby 
that made her faint. Look at her now, as prim as you please, 


LEFT HANDS AND THUMBS. 


9 


eating her breakfast as if she could never move a muscle. 
Let’s come up and ask her to give us a true version of the affair, 
Miss Elliot.” 

“No, no, I’m afraid. She’s too ’aughty. Her above-you- 
all sort of airs are not my sort; I don’t want to have any- 
thing to do with her.” 

Nurse Fry laughed contemptously. 

“Who’s afraid?” she asked. “I for one want to learn the 
truth. Oh, would I be in Nurse Harvey’s shoes when she 
catches it from Sister Agatha to-day!” 

“She’s almost certain to be reported to Sister Monica.” 

“ Almost certain? Positive sure, you mean, Miss Elliot. 
Well, lady or not, I’m going to have a chat with her.” 

Nurse Fry danced up the room, and stood before Nurse 
Harvey, who was in the act of raising a cup of coffee to her 
almost colorless lips. 

“Well, miss,” she said. 

“Well?” replied Miss Harvey. She raised her eyes, and 
looked fixedly and proudly at the other girl. Miss Fry 
stepped back a pace. 

“I thought, Miss Harvey, you’d like to know about poor 
little Number Three upstairs. Poor little chap, he was 
never the strong sort, but I’d feel it if I were you. It was 
your faint did it. Wasn’t that the case, Miss Elliot?” 

“ Hush !” said Nurse Elliot. She had followed her friend up 
the room, impelled by curiosity. Now she put her hand 
across Nurse Fry’s mouth. 

“Don’t you see that the lady is going to faint again?” 
she said in a tone of genuine pity, wrung from her by 
the sight of Nurse Harvey’s face. “She’ll faint again,” she 
repeated, “if you talk any more of your nonsense, Lucy 
Fry.” 

“No,” said Cecilia Harvey. She rose suddenly from her 
seat at the table, pushed aside her cup of untasted coffee, and 
confronted several young nurses who had now clustered 
round her. 

“I shall never faint as long as I live,” she said. “I shall 
never, whatever happens, be weak enough for that act of 
folly. You need none of you be at all afraid to tell me the 
worst therefore — is Tommy Constantine dead?” 

“Lor’, miss,” said a girl who had not yet spoken, “you’re not 
a bit fit to be a nurse, taking on like that about a baby who 
hasn’t been here a fortnight. Why, where would any of us 


10 THE MEDICINE LADY. 

be if we fretted over the deaths? Deaths are all in the day’s 
routine to nurses.” 

“ Yes, yes, I am not fitted to be a nurse, I know, but please 
answer me. I — I love Tommy. He was a sweet baby. Is 
he dead?” 

The nurses thus appealed to looked at one another. After 
a little hesitation, the greater number of them confessed that 
they did not know anything about Tommy. The circum- 
stance of Nurse Harvey’s fainting had aroused their interest, 
but they were none of them excited about a sick child with 
rheumatic fever. Such an event was much too common at 
St. Christopher’s. 

“I only said what I did as sort of a joke, miss,” said Nurse 
Fry, “to take a rise out of you, Nurse Harvey.” 

“It was i cruel joke, and I think very little of you for ut- 
tering it,” answered Cecilia, in her proudest, coldest tone. 

She walked out of the breakfast room with her head erect, 
and a flush on her cheeks. 

“ Someone will tell me about Tommy when I go up to my 
ward,” she remarked as she left the room. 

She went very slowly upstairs, and, entering one of the 
women’s wards, began to perform the menial dut ies which 
were expected of her at that early hour. 

The sick women in their beds watched her admiringly. 

“She ’ ave a style of her own,” said one to another. “Any- 
one, to look at her, would know that she has scarce washed 
a cup and saucer in her life. Aint it beautiful to see the 
unfamiliar ways of her?” 

It gratified the sick women to notice Cecilia’s awkward- 
ness. They thought well of her for not being up to the work 
which they themselves could have performed so deftly. It 
added to their own importance to be waited on by this fine- 
looking but rather useless young lady. Cecilia, too, had 
other and far more valuable things to recommend her. Her 
face was not exactly beautiful, but its expression was wonder- 
fully sweet. When these women suffered pain they liked to 
watch the color mounting into the young probationer’s pale 
face, and the tears slowly dimming her eyes; they liked to 
feel the pressure of her white, beautifully shaped hands, and 
to hear the gentle voice say, emphatically : 

“ I am so sorry for you ; I wish I could do anything to relieve 
you. I’d take your suffering and bear it myself, if it were 
possible.” 


LEFT HANDS AND THUMBS. 


11 


These little speeches, and these simple actions, helped many 
a poor creature through a bad hour in the women’s ward, but 
they did not turn Cecilia into a practical and useful nurse. 
Where genuine nursing was required Nurse Harvey was not to 
be relied on. The Sisters who had to train her were irritated 
by her ways twenty times in the course of every day. She 
was not thorough. She was not strong. She was all im- 
pulse (what was more irritating than an impulsive nurse?). 
She neglected her more obvious duties, and then rushed in 
and did the things which no one expected of her, and which 
no one wished her to perform. 

This morning Nurse Harvey was in even less favor than 
usual. She broke one or two medicine glasses, only half used 
her duster over the articles of furniture, and, in short, was all 
left hands and all thumbs, as the irate Sister of the ward ex- 
pressed it. 

A sunken-faced old woman, who was lying in a bed not far 
from the door of the ward, beckoned to Cecilia to come and 
speak to her. 

“Stoop down, my pretty,” she whispered mysteriously; 
“stoop down, I want to say a word.” 

Nurse Harvey bent over her. 

“You’re low in yourself this morning, lovey, anyone can 
see that with half an eye. And you’re more beautiful and 
awkward with the crockery even than usual. But never you 
mind that, love. We likes to see you awkward ; it shows the 
high breedin’. Whisper, dearie. Couldn’t you bring me my 
cup of tea this morning? Couldn’t you now, love? And 
you might put a pinch more in the pot if you could do it un- 
beknownst. I had a bad night, nurse, dear, and ” 

A shrill voice called Nurse Harvey’s name. 

“I’ll do what I can for you,” she said to her old friend, as 
she hurried off. 

She walked down the ward. Another woman a patient 
creature with a long face which expressed great suffering, 
called her name. 

“Nurse Harvey, do come to me a moment, my dear.” 

Cecilia forgot the voice of command to obey the voice of 
suffering. This was in perfect accordance with her complex 
character. 

“Yes,” she said, going up to the woman. “Can I do any- 
thing for you? Are you better this morning:, Mrs. Murray?” 

“Worse, my darling, much worse. But it don’t matter. 


12 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


I’ve had a vision in the night, and I’m going home to Him. 
The Lord’s coming to fetch me.” 

Cecilia’s eyes shone with a bright light. 

“It will be very nice for you to be in heaven,” she said, 
after a short pause. 

“Nice, darling! Ah, little you can tell of the niceness! I 
haven’t been out of pain day or night for three months, and 
before that I had hunger to bear, and cold to bear, and cruel 
words, and — and — but I won’t say no more. My husband is 
living, Miss Harvey, he’ll hear of my death, and I want you 
— oh, my dear young thing — I want you to ” 

“Nurse Harvey, you’re wanted this moment ; Sister Monica 
has sent for you.” Another probationer came up and gave 
this message eagerly. 

“Say I will come presently,” answered Cecilia in a calm 
voice. 

She knelt down by the dying woman’s bed-side, and her 
untidily secured cap again fell off her bright head. 

“What am I to say to your husband?” she asked, bringing 
her face close to the woman’s. 

“My darling, oh, if you would take him a message it would 
lift such a load off my heart! He’s not all bad, as some folks 
say. It was trouble as changed him; he was a very good 
man once. There was me and there was ’im, and there were 
two little ’uns, and we was ’appy as could be. But then 
came trouble, and the little ’uns was took away, thank the 
good Lord ! I blessed Him for taking ’em away when I kissed 
’em in their little coffins, but Peter took it ’ard, and everything 
went wrong. But he’s not a bad man at bottom; and I want 
you, Nurse Harvey, to promise me faithful that you’ll see 
him when he comes out.” 

“Comes out?” said Cecilia, in a voice of interrogation. 

“Let me whisper, dear. I don’t want Ann Sutton in the 
next bed to hear us. Peter is serving his time , but he’ll be 
out — he’ll be out again on the 30th of May. You try and 
meet him, Miss Harvey, and tell him ” 

A hand touched the probationer on the shoulder. She 
looked up with a start, rose to her feet, blushed violently, 
and felt for her neglected cap. 

“Will you come with me, Nurse, at once?” said the stern 
voice of Sister Agatha. “Sister Monica has twice sent for 
you. She wishes to speak to you in her private room.” 

“In one moment,” said Cecilia. She turned back to the 


LEFT HANDS AND THUMBS. 


13 


woman, bent down and gave her a kiss. “ Good-by,” she 
said; “I won’t forget.” 

“Good Lord,” said the poor woman, turning round and 
looking in a dazed way at her neighbor in the next bed. “I 
haven’t given her any message. She don’t know where he is, 
and if she did know she wouldn’t know what to say to him. 
Oh, good Lord!” 

“That’s all what comes of whispering,” snapped back the 
jealous neighbor. “ Whisperings, and favoritings, and mak- 
ing much of young ladies as has no call to be nurses. Nurse 
Jones, have the goodness to hand me that towel, my dear. 
Thank you. Well, Mrs. Murray, I’m sorry you’re disap- 
pointed in young miss, but I don’t ’old with letting out 
family secrets to strangers. I keeps myself to myself.” 

Mrs. Murray turned her dying eyes, and looked sadly at 
her cranky neighbor. 

“It don’t matter,” she said. “He knows — He what came 
to me in a vision last night knows well, and He’ll break it 
gentle to Peter. Oh, aint I glad the babies was tuck home 
first. They ’s escaped a deal ; it’s a weary world, and the pore 
lambs is well quit of it.” 

Nurse Harvey followed Sister Agatha in a dream. The 
other probationers looked spitefully at her as she walked 
out of the ward. They none of them ever saw her 
again. 

When the nurse and the young probationer reached the 
corridor, Sister Agatha turned and faced the tall girl who 
walked by her side. 

“Do you know what I think of your conduct?” 

Cecilia’s sweet eyes opened a shade wider. Her tremulous 
lips grew firm, and a touch of pride was discernible in the 
way she said: 

“No, Sister Agatha, I cannot read your thoughts.” 

“You will know them fast enough after I have expressed 
them. I think you are an insolent girl, absolutely unsuited 
to the profession you have taken up. I have found it my duty 
to report you to Sister Monica, and you may expect to be 
severely reprimanded.” 

“Do you mind telling me how little Tommy is this morn- 
ing?” 

“Number Three is my patient; you have nothing to do 
with him. I refuse to give you any particulars with regard 
to his condition.” 


14 


THE MEDICINE LADY 


“I only want to know one thing. Did I — did I make him 
worse last night?” 

“ I do not object to telling you that you made him consid- 
erably worse. Anything further 1 refuse to reveal.” 

“Sister Agatha, tell me, at least, that he is not dead.” 

“ I will tell you nothing. That is Sister Monica’s door to 
your left, down those steps. She has waited for you too 
long already. Go to her at once.” 

Sister Agatha turned away, and Cecilia knocked at the door 
of the Lady Superintendent’s private sitting room. Nurse 
Harvey had been a month at St. Christopher’s, but she had 
scarcely exchanged a dozen words with the Matron, Sister 
Monica, who, as Head Nurse of the whole vast hospital, was 
looked up to with reverence by nurses and probationers alike. 

Sister Monica was seated at a large desk, busily writing. 
When Cecilia’s modest knock was heard she raised her head, 
said “Come in” in a firm, clear voice, and again bent forward 
to resume her occupation. 

The door was opened, and the slim young probationer, who 
was in such deep disgrace, advanced a pace or two into the 
room. 

The girl nurses at St. Christopher’s were fond of going into 
raptures. There were certain people in the hospital whom it 
was the fashion to adore — one w r as the house physican, Dr. 
Digby; the other the Matron, or Lady Superintendent, Sister 
Monica. 

Cecilia had made herself disliked by never joining in the 
buzz of admiration which followed the ways and doings of 
this pair. 

She was a dreamer, and her dreams had never led her in 
their direction. She had been unmoved when Sister Monica 
said a few kind words to her on her first arrival, and, bewildered 
by the constant coming and going of new faces at all hours 
and all seasons, scarcely remembered that of the lady before 
whom she now stood in disgrace. 

Sister Monica heard the door open, but for a moment or 
two did not look up. 

Cecilia had time to bestow [upon her a fixed and earnest 
gaze. She did so, and her heart leaped with pleasure. 

“Sister Monica is a lady,” she whispered to herself; “I 
shall feel at home with her. She will understand me — how 
thankful I am!” 

She clasped her hands nervously together, but the color 


LEFT HANDS AND THUMBS. 


15 


came back slowly to her white cheeks, and when at last Sister 
Monica looked at her in grave displeasure, she saw a childish 
face of great sweetness, a young and shrinking figure, 
two lips that quivered, two eyes that shone through 
tears. 

“ I have sent for you ” began Sister Monica. She stopped 

suddenly, struck dumb by the look of appeal and distress. 
Cecilia’s soul looked out of her eyes. 

Sister Monica rose, came over to her, took her hand, and led 
her to a sofa. 

“ Sit down by me, my dear — I can give you a few minutes. 
What is your name?” 

“Cecilia Harvey.” 

“How long have you been here?” 

“Only a month.” 

“Who are your parents?” 

“My parents are dead.” 

“Who were your parents?” 

“My father was a gentleman, my mother a lady. If you 
have only a few minutes to spare, I shall waste your time if 
I tell you anything more about them.” 

Sister Monica started. She was not accustomed to the tone 
which the probationer used. She was so completetly queen 
in her own kingdom that to have her lightest order questioned 
gave her a queer experience. 

“You have a bold spirit, Cecilia Harvey,” she said, “and,” 
after a pause, “you are right. My duties are limited, my 
time is precious. I have to extend wide sympathies. In the 
twenty-four hours my smypatliy has to go round a vast circle, 
and if you prefer to remain outside it I must abide by your 
decision.” 

“I did not mean to be rude,” replied Cecilia. “I thought 
you really had no time to give me.” 

“Nor have I. Now to business. Sister Agatha told me of 
your breach of discipline last night.” 

“My breach of discipline? I comforted a little child in 
great suffering. Was that wrong?” 

“Very wrong if you broke a rule. You had nothing to do 
with Sister Agatha’s ward, and you were not on night duty. 
You should have been in bed and asleep at the hour when 
you fainted by Tommy Constantine’s bed.” 

Cecilia began to sob. 

“ If you had^ seen his face, if you had heard his piercing 


16 


THE MEDICINE LADY . 


cry, and if when you came he grew peaceful and happy, 
could you have remained outside?” 

“I should not be where I am now if I could not have re- 
strained myself to that extent.” 

“Then I hate — I hate being a hospital nurse !” 

“My dear, I have sent for you to say that I do not consider 
you in any way fitted for the life. Sister Bride, whose ward 
you are in, says that you are impulsive, not methodical; hasty, 
not calm; careless in little things. These are all faults, my 
dear, which time might or might not remedy. But the 
cardinal sin of disobedience renders your career as a hospital 
nurse at an end. I shall advise you to send in your resigna- 
tion as quickly as possible.” 

Sister Monica rose from the sofa. She hesitated for. an 
instant, then held out her hand. Cecilia’s limp fingers just 
touched hers. 

“Good-by,” said the Lady Superintendent. “If I can 
help you in any other capacity I shall be glad to do so.” 


CHAPTER III. 

WITH THE OUT-PATIENTS. 

When Cecilia Harvey found herself outside the Lady 
Superintendent’s room, she locked her hands tightly together, 
and stood for a moment in a dazed attitude. 

The blow which Sister Monica had given her had been 
very sudden and unexpected. Its first effect was to produce a 
slight paralysis both of thought and movement. Cecilia 
found herself incapable of realizing what had happened. She 
was equally incapable of moving in any direction. 

“What shall I do?” she murmured, vaguely. She was 
neither angry nor sorry at that moment. She was simply 
stunned. 

Her work was waiting for her in the woman’s ward. She 
forgot all about her work. 

A shock of another order was necessary to arouse her out 
of her present almost helpless condition. It came quickly. 

A nurse, an experienced and active woman, ran with flying 
steps down the long corridor. She saw the probationer stand- 
ing outside Sister Monica’s closed door. The nurse wanted 
to see Sister Monica on a matter of urgent importance. 


WITH THE OUT-PATIENTS. 


11 


Cecilia was in her way, and with a movement of her arm she 
pushed her aside. 

“ Stand back,” she said ; “ I want to see Sister Monica at once, 
and you are in the way of the door. Stand back, please.” 

Cecilia started, and a rosy flood of color came into her 
face. 

That changeable face of hers was always capable of this 
sudden brief loveliness. Even the commonplace nurse was 
arrested Jby the complete change on the probationer’s face. 
She stopped to examine her more critically. 

“You are Nurse Harvey,” she said, “ the girl who made such 
a mess of it last night. I wouldn’t be in your shoes for a 
good deal.” 

“I don’t think you would,” said Cecilia, slowly; “I have 
just been dismissed. I haven’t a penny in the world, and my 
career is over.” She stopped suddenly, with a look of hot 
distress and shame. “Please forget what I said,” she im- 
plored eagerly, “I mean about having no money. That part 
doesn’t matter. Please, please tell me how Tommy Constan- 
tine is now !” 

The older nurse stared hard at the trembling questioner. 

“Don’t you know?” she asked, with a brief little touch of 
pity in her voice. “Oh, Miss Harvey, what is the use of 
young ladies coming to places like this? What possible good 
can they do? When all’s said and done it’s a rough life, and 
young ladies aint fitted for it. I’m really sorry for you, Miss 
Harvey.” 

“Please don’t mind that. How is Tommy Constantine? 

“ Little Number Three ! Very ill— in the greatest possible 
danger — may last an hour or two longer, but it is impossible 
to say.” 

“Nurse, do you think / injured him last night?” 

“Do I think it? What are you made of, Miss Harvey? 
Have you got the ordinary amount of brains, or are you 
deficient? Is it likely that a child suffering from rheumatic 
fever and pericarditis would not be injured when the needle 
which was to save his life had to be twice inserted i 

“Twice? What do you mean?” 

“When you fainted, you gave the bottle a jerk, and the 
needle was pulled out of the child’s body. The doctor had 
to insert it again.” 

“Oh, what a wicked girl I am!” said Cecilia,^ suddenly. 
She did not ask the nurse any more questions. She walked 


18 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


very quickly down the corridor, all life and action now, her 
paralysis of movement and feeling effectually banished. 

Cecilia’s eyes were so bright, and her cheeks had such a 
lovely flush on them, that a young medical student stopped to 
look at her with a broad stare of admiration. She did not 
take in the meaning of his glance, but she paused to ask him a 
question. 

“Can you tell me where Dr. Digby is?” 

The youth half laughed as he replied: 

“You must be quite a new comer, Nurse,” he said. “Dr. 
Digby is always busy with the out-patients at this hour of 
the morning.” 

“Thank you; where are the out-patients attended to?” 

“Don’t you know, really? Run down those stairs and 
turn to your left. The out-patients are in the new wing. 
Knock at the door marked 5. But, I say, you’d better not 
disturb the doctor unless it’s a matter of vital importance.” 

“It is of vital importance,” answered Cecilia. 

She ran off, soon discovered the new wing, and found her- 
self standing outside the door numbered 5. She knew 
nothing of the ways of the out-patients, and paused to con- 
sider for a moment while her timid knock at the ponderous 
door remained unanswered. 

After a very brief hesitation she opened the door and went 
in. She found herself at once in a large general waiting 
room which was half full of a motley group of men, women, 
and children, all waiting their turns to enter the different 
consulting rooms. 

Seeing Cecilia in her nurse’s dress they instantly made way 
for her. She walked quickly through the room, opened another 
door and entered one of the rooms set apart for women and 
children. Several medical students were busy here talking 
to the patients, and giving advice to the best of their ability. 
The out-patients who had never come before were asked to 
stand aside to consult with Dr. Digby, but most of the older 
patients were briefly questioned, and dismissed with the in- 
variable remark: 

“Continue the treatment until I see you again.” 

There was much buzzing and talking in the room, and the 
frequent shuffling of feet and the impatient querulous move- 
ments of the out-patients added to the sense of confu- 
sion. 

When he saw Cecilia standing conspicuous and a little apart 


WITH THE OUT-PATIENTS. 


19 


from everyone else, one of the youngest of the medical clerks 
got up and came to speak to her. 

“Do you want anything, Nurse?” 

“Yes,” she answered, “I want to see Dr. Digby at once. 
It is most pressing.” 

“He is engaged with the out-patients in the consulting 
room.” 

“It is most pressing,” repeated Cecilia, in a voice of agita- 
tion. 

The young clerk stared rather, then he turned to one of his 
fellow-students, moved away a pace and whispered something. 

In a moment he came back. 

“Stand here, please, Nurse. When the doctor has done 
with the patient he is now talking to, I’ll ask him to see you.” 

Cecilia moved to the corner indicated. 

She had not to wait long. In a very brief time the door of 
the inner room was opened, and an old man with a bowed 
form and a long gray beard came out. The clerk who had 
spoken to Cecilia went into the consulting room, to reappear 
instantly, and nod to the nurse to follow him. 

“Dr. Digby can give you two minutes,” he whispered, 
then he added, as if impelled to say something by the look on 
Cecilia’s face: 

“You had better be very brief; the doctor hates to be in- 
terrupted when he is engaged with his patients.” 

Cecilia bowed in response to the young man’s admonition. 
She walked quickly into the room. 

The house physician was bending over some papers. When 
he heard the nurse’s light footfall, he looked up with that brief 
smile which was habitual to him. He was a brusque man, but 
that smile of his redeemed many of his harsh words. When 
he saw Cecilia, however, a curious change came over his face 
— the smile vanished, the expression grew annoyed, even 
angry. 

Dr. Digby ’s tone was of the curtest: 

“Do you want me, Nurse Harvey? I am particularly en- 
gaged.” 

“I want to speak to you, Dr. Digby.” 

“ Have you anything to tell me in connection with the hos- 
pital?” 

“No; it is something about myself.” 

The doctor raised his brows, he was about to say : 

“I cannot attend to you now, you must come to me this 


20 


TEE MEDICINE LADY. 


evening,” when something in the forlorn expression of the 
probationer’s face arrested his impatient words, and aroused 
in him a curious and unexpected sense of pity. He glanced 
at the clinical clerk, who was sitting at the desk in a distant 
part of the room. 

“ Do you want to see me alone?” he asked, looking briefly at 
Cecilia. 

“I do,” she said, “I won’t keep you long.” 

“Leave us for a moment or two, Everard,” said the doctor, 
addressing his clerk. 

The young man instantly went away, closing the door of 
the consulting room behind him. 

“Now, Nurse,” said the doctor, “you must say what you 
have come to say in a very few words; my patients are wait- 
ing for me.” 

“I want you to forgive me for what I did last night.” 

“Yes, yes,” the impatient look came back once more to the 
physician’s face. “I never met a more consistent character,” 
he said, looking full at Miss Harvey; “girls like you always 
ask for pardon when they have committed mischief which 
cannot be put right.” 

“Will you forgive me?” she repeated, staring at him. 

“Yes,” he replied with a slow smile, “but I shall never ask 
you to render me assistance in a critical operation again.” 

“You won’t have to,” she said gently; “ Sister. Monica has 
just told me that I am unfit for my post. She says I am to go.” 

“Sister Monica is right, you are not fit .to be a hospital 
nurse. It is better for you to seek some other employment.” 

“ In the meantime I have no money ” said Cecilia. 

“Oh!” The doctor looked [at [her in puzzled wonder; he 
had hitherto thought her too much of a lady to allude to a 
subject which might lead to an offer of pecuniary help. 

“And,” continued Cecilia, “I have no home.” 

“ I am sorry for that ” began the doctor. 

She stopped him impatiently. 

“ I do not say these things to.ask you in any way to help 
me,” she said. “I am penniless and homeless, and to be sud- 
denly dismissed because I showed, in the first instance, pity 
for a suffering child, in the second instance, the weakness 
of inexperience, seems a little hard. But I don’t want you to 
intercede for me.” 

“What do you want?” asked the doctor, with impatience 
which he could scarcely conceal. 


WITH THE OUT-PATIENTS. 


21 


“ I want to know exactly how Tommy Constantine is. I 
want to hear from your lips if there is any chance of his life 
being spared, for if my act of folly and weakness last night 
has killed him I shall lose my senses.” 

The doctor rose suddenly from his seat. 

“Sit down,” he said, in an authoritative voice, “you are 
very hysterical, and, therefore, not responsible for your ex- 
aggerated words. I am going to write a prescription for you. 
When you have taken what I order you will probably be 
better.” 

“ Thank you, perhaps I shall. In the meantime will you an- 
swer my question? Is Tommy Constantine going to die?” 

“ I trust not. He is very ill, but children as ill have re- 
covered. There is no doubt that, in the very critical state 
of his health last night your action weakened him and lessened 
the chance of cure. He was in danger then, he is still in 
danger, but he may live. I do not regard the case as hopeless. 
Now, I am afraid I must ask you to leave me.” 

“Thank you, Dr. Digby.” Cecilia paused a moment. 
“ Good-by,” she added, “ I shall have left this place in an hour.” 

She looked very youthful and childish as she said these last 
words, and once again the rose tint, wdrich made her beauti- 
ful, suffused her face and brow. 

The doctor could not help looking at her with a new in- 
terest. At that moment she ceased to be only a nurse, and 
took her place as a woman in his sympathies. 

He had very broad sympathies. Beneath all his brusquery 
was a chivalrous nature. He felt sorry for the girl who was 
penniless and homeless. 

“Where are you going?” he asked, holding out his hand. 
“Have you any plans for yourself when you leave here?” 

“I have a relative who will take me in for a day or two. 
I shall go to her at first,” answered Cecilia. 

“Are not your parents living?” 

“No,” her eyes filled with sudden tears. 

“Iam sorry for you,” said Dr. Digby, “I wish it was in my 
power to help you, but please believe in my smypatliy. Take 
it for what it is worth.” 

“Thank you,” answered Cecilia. “It is very good of you 
to speak kindly to me after I have given you so much trouble 
and annoyance.” 

“ We will let bygones be bygones,” he said, smiling now full 
upon her. “You are not suited for a nurse, but there is a call- 


22 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


ing in life waiting for you to fill. I do not know wliat it is, 
but I know it is there. Take courage, do not let despair enter 
into your soul. You are young, and you have a tender heart. 
Good-by.” 

“Good-by,” said Cecilia. 

She had nearly reached the door when she turned and, once 
more guided by her irrepressible impulses, came up to the 
doctor. 

“ I must know about Tommy Constantine,” she said. “ The 
nurses won’t tell me. They are full of prejudice. They are 
all rule, and they make no allowance for one like me. 
The narrowness, the proprieties, the detestable routine, are all 
in all to them. If I ask them a question which is life or 
death to me, they won’t reply if they think it ^breaks a rule. 
Do you suppose I can go away from this hospital and rest con- 
tent not to know whether I have been the cause of a child’s 
death or not? How am I to learn, when I leave St. Christo- 
pher’s, about Tommy Constantine?” 

“ You are keeping me from my patients in a most unwarrant- 
able way, Miss Harvey,” said the doctor; but though he 
spoke brusquely, his eyes were full of kindness as he looked 
at her. 

Cecilia answered the eyes, not the voice. 

“ I won’t keep you another moment,” she said, “ only tell me 
how I am to hear about the child.” 

Dr. Digby took out his watch. 

“Come to my private room this evening,” he said, “anyone 
will tell you the part of the hospital where I live. I can see 
you for ten minutes after dinner. About nine o’clock. 
Good-by.” 

He held out his big hand, clasped Cecilia’s, then called to 
his medical clerk to return. 

“Show in another patient, Everard,” he said. “Good-by, 
Miss Harvey.” 

Cecilia left the room. 

CHAPTER IY. 

A WILLING SCAPEGOAT. 

In a part of London which has more or less gone out of 
fashion in these days there was, at the time when Cecilia 
Harvey’s real story began, an old-fashioned house in an old- 


A WILLING SCAPEGOAT. 


23 


world square. In this house lived the relative who was to 
take pity on the penniless and homeless probationer. 

She was a widow of the name of Lancaster. She had three 
daughters and two sons. 

Mrs. Lancaster was known to be possessed of what is called 
in certain circles a moderate income. There is no more elastic 
term than this. For one man’s moderation is another man’s 
wealth ; on the other hand, one man’s moderation may be con- 
sidered a pittance to starve on by his brother. 

Mrs. Lancaster belonged to the class of people who con- 
sidered a thousand a year to be an exact fulfillment of the 
prayer of Agar. She was often heard to say : 

“ I thank the good God, who has given me neither poverty 
nor riches.” 

She was an excellent manager, and made the £250 which she 
received quarterly go a long way. She educated her children 
on it, kept up her house, entertained a select circle of friends, 
and took a summer holiday, which was not considered so 
absolutely indispensable in 1870 as it is in 1892. 

Mrs. Lancaster gave a certain amount of her wordly goods 
to feed the poor. She would have considered it very wrong 
to withhold this sum from the needy and wanting. She 
liked to see her name figure in subscription lists. She was 
fond of bestowing her patronage on bazaars and charity^con- 
certs. The clergyman of the parish in which she lived con- 
sidered her an excellent woman. Ilis wife was fond of ap- 
pealing to her for advice, and his district visitors knew well 
that Mrs. Lancaster’s opinion on this and that matter relating 
to parochial affairs was quite as valuable as the vicar’s own. 

This excellent woman, who had never been a penny in debt 
in her life, who had brought up her five children with pru- 
dence and rectitude, had the misfortune to be aunt by marriage 
to Cecilia Harvey. 

Cecilia had been a thorn in the excellent creature’s side 
from the time when, eight years old, she had been sent home 
from India under the care of her mother. 

Mrs. Harvey was as like her rather willful child as a mother 
can be like a daughter. 

It is the ordinary custom to say that children resemble their 
parents, but in this case the common mode of speech would 
not express the resemblance between Mrs. Harvey and her 
daughter. The mother had the daughter’s impulse, only more 
so — she possessed the daughter’s weakness in an exaggerated 


24 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


form. The girl’s latent strength, her fire, her enthusiasm, 
were only shadowed forth in the mother. Mrs. Harvey had 
only the germs of that originality which was to mark Cecilia 
by and by. 

She was weakly in constitution, and when Cecilia was twelve 
years old she died. 

Mrs. Harvey died in the Lancasters’ house. She was not 
unkindly treated ; she had a good doctor and an excellent nurse 
to attend her in her last moments, and Mrs. Lancaster herself 
was standing by her side when she breathed her last. 

But it was not on Mrs. Lancaster that the dying woman 
bestowed her long last passionate glance. It was rather on 
the slim child whose little face was glowing with suppressed 
feeling, whose gray eyes were tearless, and whose small hot 
hand was secretly pressing her mother’s under the bedclothes. 

After Mrs. Harvey’s death Cecilia was found in one of those 
strange faints which came to her more than once in her early 
life. She got over the unconscious stage early enough, but 
afterward she was feverish, and for a long time her listless- 
ness, her apathy toward pleasure and pain alike, the indiffer- 
ent manner in which she met both caresses and repulses, made 
her r an object of irritation to all around her. 

Cecilia’s father had been a captain in one of the Line regi- 
ments. His widow had a small pension, which ceased, of 
course, at her death. Cecilia was also allowed a few pounds 
by the government. Mrs. Lancaster said it was scarcely 
worth mentioning; but, being a managing woman, she made 
it pay for her niece’s education. 

Mrs. Lancaster decreed that such a temperament as Cecilia’s 
was likely to produce an unhealthy effect in her home. She 
sought and found a cheap school for the child, and sent her 
there when she most needed the tenderness and affection of a 
happy home. 

Cecilia was underfed in the school, and all her hysterical 
tendencies became intensified. She returned to "Harford 
Square when she was seventeen. She was supposed to be 
finished — that was the correct term in her young days — but 
an absolutely less developed creature has seldom walked the 
earth. 

In figure she was tall and painfully thin. She had lovely 
hair, but not a large supply of it; it was bright in color, and 
she could arrange it gracefully round her head. Her eyes had 
plenty of expression in them, b.ut they were neither specially 


A WILLING SCAPEGOAT. 


25 


large nor specially dark. The rest of her features were com- 
monplace, except her mouth, which was full of sweetness, 
petulance, and spirit. Cecilia expressed more by the curves 
of her finely cut lips than by her eyes. They revealed a 
thousand times a day the unruly, angry, and yet deeply 
earnest and affectionate spirit which dwelt in her breast. 

When she came back from school her aunt told her she had 
now done her part for her, and that in future she must earn 
her living as a governess. 

“You have had immense advantages, Cecilia,” said Mrs. 
Lancaster. “ You are a highly finished girl, and awkward as 
you still are, I will say this for you, you always look like a 
lady.” 

“I can’t help looking like what I am,” replied Cecilia. 

“Don’t interrupt me, my dear, that is very bad style.” 

Cecilia folded her hands with an impatient sigh. 

“ It is impossible for me to keep you at home any longer, 
my dear girl.” 

“At home,” echoed Cecilia. She threw some scorn into 
her words. Then she added in an exasperatingly meek 
voice, “ I know perfectly well that you have no foom for me 
in this house, Aunt Charlotte.” 

“It isn’t a question of room,” said Mrs. Lancaster, flushing; 
“it is a question of far deeper import. Is it right for a 
young girl to be dependent or independent?” 

“Dear me, Aunt Charlotte,” responded Cecilia, springing 
to her feet, “why discuss a question which is already an- 
swered? The girl who is called Cecilia Harvey will certainly 
never be dependent on anyone.” 

“ That is right, my love. I knew you had plenty of spirit, 
Cecil. After all I am only your aunt by marriage, and my 
means are limited. I have often great difficulty in making 
two ends meet.” 

“ I am sure you have, Aunt Charlotte. There is quite a little 
gap between the two ends when I am in the house, isn’t there?” 

“ Cecilia, your pertness is one of your faults. Well, my love, 
as I said just now, you are finished.” 

“How, Aunt? In what am I finished?” 

Mrs. Lancaster felt a little taken aback. 

“How are you finished?” she repeated. “You had better 
ask your late governess, Madame Letouche. It is a strange 
remark for a girl just fresh from school to make. Your music, 
for instance?” 


26 


THE MEDICINE LADT. 


“I always play wrong notes.” 

“You ought to be ashamed to confess it. Your singing?” 

“My voice is flat, thin, and out of tune.” 

“Well, Cecilia, if you are determined to make the worst of 
yourself ” 

“Not at all; only why will you say that I am finished?” 

“So you are, my dear, you have had a really nice education. 
Your French, for instance?” 

“Aunt Charlotte, I must confess a secret to you. I can’t 
talk French; I can’t even read it properly. I hate French!” 

“You say this ” 

“Because it is true.” 

“Then what did you go to school for?” 

“ Because you sent me. It was a horrid school ; they taught 
nothing properly there, and I was half starved.” 

“Cecilia, you have no right to say such things.” 

“They are true, Aunt Charlotte. I should not be the ugly, 
scraggy creature I am to-day if I had not been hungry more 
or less — and it was always more and never less — from the 
time I was twelve and a half until I came back to your house 
a month ago. They never taught anything properly at my 
school. How could the teachers teach what they did not know 
themselves? I was fond of drawing and natural history and 
— and — zoology .” 

“ What in the world is that, my dear?” 

Cecilia smiled in a superior way. 

“Never mind,” she said, in a gentle but most irritating 
manner. “Zoology is never counted in a finished education, 
so even if I knew anything about it, and I don’t say I do — 
I wish I did — it would not help me to get a good situation as 
governess. So, Aunt Charlotte, I may as well say briefly at 
once that I don’t intend to be a governess.” 

“You don’t intend to be a governess? Really, Cecilia, 
your manner and your speech are too trying ! Can a penniless 
girl choose?” 

“This one can.” 

“Cecilia, you are a very wicked, ungrateful young person.” 

“I am sorry you think so, Aunt Charlotte; but I don’t in- 
tend to be a governess. I can’t teach, and I should hate the 
life.” 

“ Then you prefer being dependent on a lady who is really no 
relation to you?” 

“I shan’t be dependent on you, Aunt Charlotte,” 


A WILLING r SCAPEGOAT. 


27 


“Pray, may I ask what you intend to do?” 

“I can’t tell you just this minute. Perhaps I shall go into 
a shop.” 

“Oh, oh, and bring disgrace on us all!” 

Cecilia walked out of the room. She was undoubtedly a 
most irritating girl, and Mrs. Lancaster felt that she had every 
reason to be aggrieved. 

She was determined not to allow her niece to become an in- 
mate of her home. She knew that this headstrong girl was 
the very last person to accommodate herself to circumstances. 
Circumstances in Cecilia’s case would have meant being the 
Cinderella of the household. By no possible means could 
Miss Harvey have been induced to accept this rdle; therefore 
she must go. 

She must and should earn her own living. 

On the day of her conversation with her aunt, Cecilia went 
for a walk. She was fond of going out alone, and as she was 
so awkward and so plain, this was the opinion of the Lancaster 
household, no one thought of preventing her from taking the 
exercise she chose in her own fashion and at her own time. 

Cecilia took a long walk this afternoon. There were burn- 
ing thoughts in her heart, and she wanted to get rid of them by 
quick, free exercise. She would have liked to ride a fleet horse 
at that moment, had such been within her reach. Cecilia was 
the kind of woman to ride like the wind. She could not ride, 
the means being denied her, but, at least, she could walk. She 
quickly reached Regent’s Park, and then, indeed, she put 
forth her strength, and seemed to skim over the ground. 

The exercise did her good, and she went back to Harford 
Square warm and glowing in body, and with a more temperate 
feeling in her aggrieved heart. 

From Regent’s Park there were two ways to reach Harford 
Square. One lay down respectable and gloomy Gower Street, 
the other, and the shorter way, passed through some slums of 
a rather shady character. Cecilia, reckless in everything, 
chose the slums. She walked down them, indifferent to the 
fact that more than one person turned to stare at her. She 
was cert i inly not at all beautiful at this time, but her hair 
was wonderfully bright, and her young figure even now gave 
promise of grace. She held herself erect, too, and walked 
with a free motion. The people in the slums, men and women 
alike, stared at the proud-looking girl. Cecilia saw nothing 
of this. She quickly, however, saw something else — the sight 


28 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


woke her up, she forgot her day-dreams, her own sorrows, 
real and* imaginary ; her eyes grew full of grave and tender 
pity; she stopped short. 

The sight which affected her was the following. 

A little girl dressed in rags was carrying a jug of beer. 
The jug was large and full to the brim. The child carried it 
with much care, but the day was a cold one, there was ice on 
the ground, the badly shod feet slipped, the thin blue hands re- 
laxed their hold of the jug — it fell to the ground, shivered to a 
thousand bits. There was a pool of beer round the broken 
jug, and the child threw herself on the ground close to the 
pool and the broken fragments, and sobbed h in a low, heart- 
broken manner. 

Cecilia flew to her and picked her up. 

“Don’t cry,” she said, “it was an accident. I saw how 
cold your hands were, and your feet were so badly shod. Who 
could walk on a slippery pavement in such boots as yours? 
Don’t cry, little girl, you could not help spilling the beer.” 

“Dad ’ull beat me,” said the child, rubbing a dirty knuckle 
into a watery blue eye; “ ’ee beats us orfle. Yer wouldn’t like 
it, ef yer was me.” 

“Your father won’t beat you for an accident. Tell him 
you broke the jug because you slipped, and because he doesn’t 
give you good boots.” 

“No, I won’t,” said the child, “ ’ee wouldn’t care — ee’d beat 
me cos ’ee wants ’is beer for dinner.” 

Cecilia stood motionless, deeply thinking. 

A little crowd gathered round her, waiting for the obvious 
thing for the young lady to do. Of course she was expected 
to put her hand into her pocket and draw out her purse and 
give the child the wherewithal to buy a fresh jug, and then 
more money to fill it with beer. Cecilia, however, had no 
purse in her pocket. 

Seeing her hesitation, a dirty woman nudged her on her 
elbow, and remarked: 

“Little Peg’s right, laidy, the father’s real ’ard. He’ll 
beat ’er orfle. You could get a jug like the one she’s broke 
for twopence round the corner.” 

“I have not got twopence,” said Cecilia. “If the child 
must have a new jug of beer to bring home, I cannot help 
her. I am very, very sorry.” 

Peg’s blue eyes had grown dry by this time. When 
Cecilia began to speak they were raised to her face in eager 


A WILLING SCAPEGOAT. 


29 


expectation, by the time she had finished the lids had dropped 
over them, and tears once more welled forth. 

“I tell you what,” said Cecilia briskly, “I’ll come home 
with you, Peg, and speak to your father about the accident. 
I have no money with me, I wish I had, but I will see that 
you are not beaten. If your father must beat anyone he shall 
beat me. I am stronger than you. Come along, Peg.” 

She took the child’s little cold hand and walked away with 
her, the greater number of the crowd of people that had col- 
lected round this little street scene gazing at her retreating 
form in astonishment, and a few stragglers running down the 
street after her and the child. They reached a court which 
even policemen feared to enter, but Cecilia, in her ignorance, 
knew no sinking of heart — she was elated with the hope that 
she might save the shrinking little Peg from cruel blows. 

The child and the girl got well inside the court — then the 
child made an heroic effort. 

“Kind laidy,” she said, “yer’d better go now; this aint the 
place for the likes of you.” 

Cecilia laughed. 

“Nonsense,” she said, “you live here, Peg, and I suppose 
I can endure this horrible jfface for a few minutes to save you 
from a beating. O Peg! it is a horrible place — how can 
you endure it? But never mind, come quickly and take me 
to your father.” 

The shadow of a smile flitted over Peg’s queer wizened old- 
young face — her tiny clawlike hand gave Cecilia’s a fond 
squeeze. When Peg gave that squeeze, love for the first 
time was born in her soul. 

She said nothing further to dissuade her friend, but ran 
across the court holding her hand, and, entering a house out 
of which queer and awful noises issued, went down some 
steps that led to a cellar, and pushed open the door. 

“ Yere we be,” she said, panting a little. 

For a moment Cecilia could see nothing — then, as she grew 
accustomed to the horrible twilight of the place, she noticed 
that a gaunt man, only half clothed, rose from a cobbler’s stool, 
and came two or three steps forward to stare at her out of his 
bloodshot eyes. A woman also stood up, and two children 
stopped quarreling, to gaze at the apparition which so unex- 
pectedly turned their den into a place of wonder. 

Cecilia saw the man, woman, and children; at the same 
moment she was greeted with a horrible and sickly smell. 


30 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


The smell turned her sick, and a terror of fainting began to 
assail her. 

“I have come,” she said hastily, “to tell you that Peg fell 
in the street and broke the jug of beer that she was carrying. 
The jug and the beer are both gone. Peg slipped because the 
jug was too heavy for her, and because her boots are broken. 
She was not in the least to blame, and I said I would come 
here to ask you not to beat her.” 

Cecilia addressed all her words to the man, who now came 
close to her and leered wickedly into her face. He was too 
much astonished to speak for a moment. 

“You give us the price of the jug, laidy,” said the woman, 
in a shrill tone. Cecilia was still looking at the man. “I 
have not got the money,” she said “or I would gladly pay for 
the beer — I have not a penny in the world about me — I wish 
I had, if it would save Peg from a beating.” 

The man suddenly found his voice — it came to him in the 
shape of a harsh rude laugh. Then he said suddenly : 

“Peg knows as I allers beats her when she spills the beer. 
Come along, Peg, yere’s the switch ’andy.” 

Cecilia suddenly threw her arm around the child. 

“You shan’t do it!” she said, her eyes flashing, “I don’t 
suppose you would dare to beat a lady, but you shall beat me 
before you beat this little girl !” 

“Oh, wouldn’t I dare!” said the man. 

“All right — begin!” 

Cecilia pulled her glove off, bared her arm, and stretched 
it out. 

“Here,” she said, “strike! I have no money to give to Peg, 
but I can take her punishment.” 

So white a hand and arm had never been seen by that man 
before. In the dim light the slender fingers looked almost 
spiritual. The monster stepped across the cellar to take a 
switch from the wall, but before he could even turn to strike 
Cecilia’s offered hand the woman interfered. 

“You forgive him, laidy,” she said, “’ee wouldn’t strike 
you, laidy; w’y should ’ee? Only ’ee wanted ’is beer, and 
Peg angered him. Maybe, laidy, you’d give us that tie round 
yer neck.” 

“And that ring on yer finger,” suddenly said the man. 

Cecilia instantly pulled her white handkerchief off. 

“You can have that,” she said, “but not the ring, for it 
belonged to my mother.” 


A WILLING SCAPEGOAT. 


31 


The woman seized the handkerchief, which was large and 
white and made of the finest silk. 

“If you pawn this hankerchief,” said Cecilia, “you will 
get the price of the jug and the price of more beer than will 
fill it. Good-by, Peg.” 

She stooped down, touched the child’s grimy forehead with 
her lips, turned and walked out of the cellar, and the next 
moment was beyond the court. 

Her movements were so fleet that no one had intercepted 
her. She walked straight home, completely taken out of 
herself. 

“Aunt Charlotte,” she said that night, “I have found my 
vocation.” 

Mrs. Lancaster raised her eyes and looked at her interroga- 
tively. 

“ If you are going to talk sense, I will listen to you, Cecilia,” 
she said; “if not, I am busy.” 

“ I am going to talk a great deal of sense, Aunt Charlotte. 
I will not be a governess, but I can make myself independent 
of you and your house. I wish to become a nurse in a hospital. 
I should prefer a children’s hospital, as I like children better 
than grown people — but, at any rate, I intend to become a 
nurse.” 

When Cecilia made this remark Mrs. Lancaster raised her 
eyes, and surveyed her niece from head to foot. She kept 
her lips firmly shut, but her eyes spoke volumes. 

After a very long pause, she said in the tone one uses to a 
refractory child: 

“I had a drive with Mrs. Pickering-Clark this afternoon. 
I told her about you, and she said it was possible you might 
suit her for her two little girls. They are young — the eldest 
twelve, the youngest nine. The Pickering-Clarks are a sweet 
family, evangelical in their tendencies. You will be most 
fortunate if you secure a home in their house, and I have 
told Mrs. Pickering-Clark that you will call there to-morrow at 
ten o’clock.” 

“You had better write to her, Aunt Charlotte, to cancel 
the engagement you have made for me. I shall not call on 
Mrs. Pickering-Clark, and I shall not teach her daughters. 
That sweet Christian household would not suit me at all. I 
intend to be a nurse in a hospital.” 

Cecilia again ran out of the room. There was an attic, 
which she called her own, at the top of the house. She. was 


32 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


flying up to it now when she met her cousin, George Lancas- 
ter, coming down. He was a heavy-eyed young man of 
about two-and-twenty. When he saw Cecilia he held out 
his arms playfully, to bar her progress. 

“Well, Humpty-Dumpty,” he said. This w T as his favorite 
name for his cousin. It annoyed her a good deal. She col- 
ored high now. 

“I am not Humpty-Dumpty,” she said. “Let me pass, if 
you please.” 

“Not until you tell me where you are a-going. Come now, 
Dumpty, you need not be in such a pepper. You know I’m 
your friend.” 

Cecilia stepped back and dropped a profound courtesy. 

“How you elate me!” she said, mockingly. “Your words 
make my spirits soar.” 

“You need not be satirical, Cecil. Where are you going?” 

“To my attic.” 

“To freeze there?” 

“No; to go to bed, sleep, and be happy.” 

“Come back, and have a game of bezique in the drawing 
room with me.” 

“Thank you, I prefer not.” 

George looked behind him, then he peeped over the ban- 
isters. No one was coming downstairs, and no one was com- 
ing up. Cecilia’s cheeks flushed when she spoke, and her 
eyes shone. 

George came nearer. 

“Do you know that you are a very pretty girl?” he said. 

“I know that I am not, and I know also that, even if I was, 
you have no right to say so. If you tell me again that I am 
pretty to my face I shall repeat your words to Aunt Charlotte. ” 

With an adroit movement she ducked under his extended 
arms, and soon found refuge in her attic. 

That night the excitable, childish impulsive girl ciied her- 
self to sleep. 

CHAPTER V. 

THE RETURN OF THE BAD PENNY. 

Mrs. Lancaster was supposed to have a strong will, but 
Cecilia’s was stronger. Nothing would induce her to become 
a governess, and her determination to have herself trained as 
a hospital nurse never wavered. 


THE RETURN OF THE BAH PENNY. 33 

After some mouths of bickering Mrs. Lancaster was forced 
to submit to her niece’s whim, and steps were taken to enable 
the young girl to enter St. Christopher’s Hospital in East 
London as a probationer. 

Lady nurses were rare in those days, and Mrs. Lancaster’s 
friends spoke a good deal of the strange choice made by her 
young relative, pitied Mrs. Lancaster on account of the girl’s 
eccentricities, and prophesied absolute failure for Cecilia. 

The Lancaster household, however, breathed freely when 
she had gone. Millie Lancaster was now twenty years of 
age, Chatty and Helena were eighteen and fifteen respectively. 
Mrs. Lancaster did not want another girl about the house. 
Her own girls were quite enough for a careful, anxious, well- 
meaning mother to have to settle in life. They were ordinary, 
good-humored, fairly pretty girls, but they were essentially 
commonplace, and Cecilia, who was uncommon, had the effect 
of making them look their worst when she was by. 

George Lancaster, too, had an unpleasant habit lately of 
marking her out for attention. Of course he meant nothing by 
it. What young man in his senses would be mad enough to fall 
in love with Cecilia Harvey, a penniless, eccentric, disagree- 
able girl? Still — Mrs. Lancaster meant a good deal when she 
said “ still” — for every reason it was well to have her trouble- 
some niece away. 

It was a foggy morning, and the inmates of the large house 
in Harford Square were feeling the influence of the yellow 
atmosphere which pervaded the rooms. George, who was in a 
very good mercantile house in the City, had gone away to his 
place of business some time ago. Freddie, the youngest son, 
was from home at a boarding-school. There was no one at 
home, therefore, but Mrs. Lancaster and the three girls, Millie, 
Chatty, and Helena, or Lena, as her family were in the habit 
of calling her. 

Mrs. Lancaster was fond of economizing in small ways. 
One of her pet economies was a parsimonious use of fuel. The 
drawing-room fire was never lit until late in the day, and the 
fire in the dining room, whatever the state of the ther- 
mometer, was well slacked down immediately after break- 
fast. 

There are perhaps few things more exasperating than a well- 
slacked fire. Its black exterior strikes a chill to the heart. 
A slacked fire has an inhospitable, churlish appearance. The 
small glow of warmth which it retains resembles an angry 


34 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


and vindictive eye. Mrs. Lancaster liked to have her dining- 
room fire very well slacked. 

When the housemaid had withdrawn after this ceremony, 
the good lady was in the habit of drawing her armchair 
well in front of it, pulling up the skirt of her dress to 
prevent its getting scorched — not that there was the least 
danger — putting her feet on the fender, and absorbing the 
contents of the daily paper. 

If the morning was cold, therefore, the three girls, who sat 
about the room employed in various ways, were apt to feel 
the reverse of amiable. 

On this particular morning the fog, joined to the cold, 
brought the spirits of all four down to a decidedly low ebb. 
There was an ominous silence for some time, the crackling of 
the slowly consumed coal and the rustling of Mrs. Lancaster’s 
paper being the only sounds audible in the big room. 

Suddenly there came a little scuffling noise, an exclamation, 
and then a burst of childish tears. 

Mrs. Lancaster turned round impatiently : 

“Lena, you are really too silly! What, crying again?” 

“Chatty pushed me, mamma, and spoiled my drawings.” 

“She wouldn’t give me a glimpse of the fire,” said Chatty. 
“ She is so selfish, always sitting in such a way at the table 
as to get every scrap of the heat to herself.” 

Mrs. Lancaster raised her brows in well acted astonishment. 

“My dear Chatty, are you cold?” she asked. 

“ Cold? I should think I am, mamma. Aren’t you cold, 
Millie?” 

“I should think so, with a fire like that.” 

Mrs. Lancaster rose slowly, and put her newspaper on the 
table. 

“A fire like this?” she repeated. “It is a great fire, built 
half-way up the chimney — its heat must pervade the entire 
room. No one ought to be cold in a room like this — at least, 
no Christian person, conscious of her privileges, and thankful 
for her mercies, ought to be cold. ” 

“Well, mamma, I am cold,” said Chatty; “and look at 
Lena’s hands, they are quite blue — and Millie’s nose, it’s as 
red ” 

“You need not mind about my nose,” snapped Millie. 
“Mamma, if you would allow us to poke the fire.” 

“Poke the fire!” exclaimed Mrs. Lancaster, in horror. 
“ Why, it has not been slacked down half an hour yet. I 


THE RETURN OF THE BAD PENNY. 


35 


shall certainly not allow it to be poked. Lena, stop crying, 
and go on with your drawing. Chatty, you are not cold; 
it’s absurd to say so. Millie, oh, my dear Millie, what is the 
matter?” 

Millie Lancaster had risen in excitement to her feet. 

“Mamma, whom do you think I saw pass the window just 
now?” 

“ My dear, I cannot say. Who was it? How excited you 
look! Why, there’s a ring at the front door.” 

“It’s Cecilia, mamma; she has come back.” 

Mrs. Lancaster suppressed a word of impatience. 

The ring was repeated, the hall door was quickly opened, 
and Cecilia Harvey, in her nurse’s dress, came in. 

She felt she ought not to # appear in the costume of an order 
she no longer belonged to, but she happened to have no other 
dress with her at the hospital. She entered the room in her 
usual fearless, yet excited manner. 

“How are you, Aunt Charlotte?” she said. 

“How do you do, Cecilia?” responded Mrs. Lancaster, be- 
stowing the tips of her fingers upon her niece, and just touch- 
ing her cheek with an icy salute. 

“What a cold day for you to come out,” remarked Millie. 

“But you look blooming,” continued Chatty. “It is much 
better for people to go out and take exercise, whatever the 
weather — I always say so to mamma, but she never minds 
me.” 

“Have they given you a whole holiday, Cecil?” asked 
Helena, in a slightly wistful tone. 

Lena was the nicest of the Lancasters, and she was the only 
one of her cousins for whom Cecilia felt a particle of regard. 

“I have not got a holiday,” she said, “at least, in other 
words, I have got a very, very long holiday. I have just 
been dismissed from St. Christopher’s.” 

“Oh!” was the exclamation which issued from four pairs 
of feminine lips. 

There was dismay, incredulity, anger, and curiosity in 
these four round “ Ohs !” 

Cecilia looked full at her aunt as she continued: 

“You will be pleased, Aunt Charlotte, to learn that your 
prophecies with regard to my powers as a hospital nurse have 
been fulfilled. I have been one month at St. Christopher’s, 
and during that time have abundantly proved that I am not 
fit to be a hospital nurse.” 


36 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“Ah! I thought as much,” responded Mrs. Lancaster, nod- 
ing her head, “I always told you so, Cecilia.” 

“You did, Aunt Charlotte, and you spoke the truth. 1 
love nursing sick people. I love comforting them — above all 
things in the world, I love petting and kissing the little sick 
children, but I only made a sort of story-book nurse, not a 
real one, for the real good nurse has no heart and no sym- 
pathies.” 

“Folly!” interrupted Mrs. Lancaster. “The real trained 
nurse is a most valuable person. There is no one in the world 
whom I respect more than I do the properly trained nurse. 
You talk like a baby. It is too ridiculous to hear a chit like 
you running down so noble a profession.” 

“Oh, I don’t, Aunt Charlotte; I respect the trained nurse 
immensely, but I shall never become one. I had to help in an 
operation last night — I can’t tell you [about it, but — but — I 
was silly enough and mad enough to faint at the critical 
moment. The poor little patient’s life was endangered by my 
folly. I may have killed the child, I do not know; perhaps 
I have. Anyhow, Sister Monica dismissed me this morning. 
At least, she asked me to send in my resignation, which 
amounts to the same thing. Here I am, therefore, Aunt 
Charlotte. I have left St. Christopher’s, and, like a bad 
penny, I have come back.” 

Mrs. Lancaster did not contradict Cecilia’s statement about 
the bad penny. On the contrary, her compressed lips and cold, 
angry eyes abundantly confirmed the young girl’s statement 
about herself. Mrs. Lancaster felt so annoyed that she 
turned her back upon Cecilia, and. in her abstraction abso- 
lutely poked the well-slacked fire into a gentle blaze. 

Millie, who was always observant, took immediate advan- 
tage of this to come forward and warm her icy hands. The 
two other girls stood on each side of Cecilia, looking at her 
with a mingling of admiration and dismay. They knew that 
their mother did not want Cecilia to come back, they scarcely 
wished for her themselves, yet she interested them; her vaga- 
ries, her eccentricities, gave a certain excitement to their dull, 
monotonous lives. 

The Lancasters were timid girls, and they could not but ad- 
mire their cousin’s pluck. 

Mrs. Lancaster did not ask Cecilia to seat herself ; she turned 
her back upon her niece, and, after a long pause, said in an 
icy tone : 


THE RETURN OF THE BAD BENNY. 


37 


“May I ask what you propose to do now?” 

“I thought,” replied Cecilia, with a certain faltering in her 
voice, “that perhaps you’d let me stay here for a day or two 
until I ” 

“Until you?” responded Mrs. Lancaster, her voice even 
colder than when she had spoken before. 

“Until I find something to do, Aunt Charlotte.” 

“Will you give up that obstinacy you showed before you 
went to St. Christopher’s, and become a governess?” 

“I will never become a governess.” 

“I may as well tell you, Cecilia, that I shall not keep you 
here indefinitely.” 

“May I stay for — for a week? I have no money, or I 
would not ask this.” 

“I cannot promise that you may stay for a week, but you 
may remain until to-morrow. I will think over what is to 
be done with you. You can go upstairs now — your old room 
is still at your disposal. Go at once, and take off that dress 
which you have dishonored. I must say I am thoroughly 
ashamed of you.” 

Cecilia left the room without another word. She was 
joined almost immediately by Chatty and Lena. 

“Don’t mind mamma, Cecil,” said Lena. “We won’t let 
her turn you out until you have something nice to go to. 
Don’t cry, Cecil.” 

“Oh, dear no!” replied Cecilia, “I would not cry for 
worlds.” Her eyes were very bright, and there was a pink 
spot on each cheek. She had reached her attic bedroom 
now. It was dismantled, dusty, full of yellow fog, and icy 
cold. 

Ceclia had just come from a well warmed and well venti- 
lated hospital; she shivered in spite of herself in her wretched 
room, and, putting her hand to her mouth, sneezed two or 
three times. 

“O Cecil, please don’t catch cold,” exclaimed Chatty. 
“Nothing would make mamma so desperately angry.” 

“You ought to have a fire,” said Lena; “you shall have a 
fire. Mamma never comes up to the attic. I will go and 
coax Susan to light a good fire in your room ; then, when it 
is all cozy, we three will come up and sit with you, and you 
shall tell us about the hospital.” 

“We are awfully curious to know about the operations,” 
exclaimed Chatty. “Did you see many people put under 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


. 38 

chloroform, Cecil? I hope you did, for we are longing to 
hear all about it.” 

Cecil made no reply. 

The servant came in to light a fire in her room. It was 
then dusted and the bed made, the two girls running backward 
and forward and helping to make the room nice. The more 
they did for Cecilia, the more they liked doing things for her. 
They felt much happier and much warmer than they had done 
in the dismal dining room. When the fire blazed merrily, and 
the room looked habitable once more, Miss Harvey changed 
her nurse’s dress, and put on a shabby old childish frock of 
dark blue serge. It scarcely reached to her -feet, and was al- 
together too small for her. 

“You look much prettier in your nurse’s dress than in that 
frock,” remarked the frank Charlotte. 

“I have no right to wear my nurse’s dress,” she replied 
mournfully. 

“ Well, see ; could it not be altered? It is only a very plain 
dark serge. It seems a pity you should not wear such a nice 
dress. Of course these plain skirts are not the fashion, and 
there is a funny little train at the back which must be cut 
off.” 

“That train is awfully becoming to you, Cecil,” interrupted 
Lena. 

“Oh, yes,” continued Charlotte, “but that is not the point. 
Mamma will be very angry if this dress turns out. useless. I 
think we had better ask Hamilton to take it in hand and make 
it fit for Cecil to wear every day.” 

Cecilia sat on the side of her small bed; she was not inter- 
ested in the subject of her dress. She hated the dress as 
part of the life she must no longer share ; but she let her cousins 
talk on, for she felt too languid and too miserable to arouse 
herself to answer them. She was thinking all the time of her 
coming interview with Dr. Digby, and wondering how she 
could get back to St. Christopher’s Hospital that night with- 
out letting either her aunt or her cousins know. 

She was not the sort of girl to be deterred by obstacles, 
but she knew well that to reach St. Christopher’s at nine 
o’clock, the time which the doctor had named, she would not 
be able to sit out the long and wearisome dinner, which, be- 
ginning at half -past seven, lasted for an interminable time 
each evening. 

Dinner was the great ceremony of the day in the Harford 


THE HOUSE PHYSICIAN. 


39 


Square house. The girls were expected to appear at it in 
evening dress, and although the dining room was as cold then 
as in the morning, and the soup, the fish, the entrees were mys- 
teriously devoid of flavor, still the dreary ordeal had a cer- 
tain imposing effect, and nothing so insured Mrs. Lancaster’s 
displeasure as any one of her family absenting themselves 
from this august ceremony. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE HOUSE PHYSICIAN. 

St. Christopher’s had never known a more popular house 
physician than Laurence Digby. He had risen to his present 
post by the usual steps which are open to a medical student at 
one of our great hospitals. For some years he had been con- 
nected with this large hospital in East London, and was now a 
recognized part of the institution. 

To speak of St. Christopher’s was to bring up a vision of 
Digby’s rugged but kindly face. 

He was rather above the middle height; his every move- 
ment gave the idea of quick though deliberate action. He 
was well made, and, although he slightly stooped and his 
face w r as old for his years, it was impossible not to remark a 
certain power about the man which gave him distinction. 
His hair, which had been jet-black, was slightly tinged with 
gray at the temples. His face wore a subdued though firm ex- 
pression, as if he was familiar with the sorrowful side of life. 
In his eyes was a continual play of latent fire conveying the 
idea of both pathos and humor. 

A depth of knowledge, seriousness of purpose, and complete 
assurance gave the greatest confidence to his patients at all 
times. He was a man who carefully studied each individual 
case brought under his notice, and, having made his diagnosis, 
nothing could make him alter his opinion. He did not hesi- 
tate to tell people his true thoughts and opinions about a case, 
a trait which accounted, perhaps, for the faith which the 
medical students put in his diagnosis, though it was likely to 
bring him enemies in his career. He did not hesitate to tell 
women what he thought of their ailments, and. they unhesi- 
tatingly felt that they must put aside all imaginings, or they 
w r ould get but little sympathy from Digby. The doctor was 
a highly qualified man, and, being fond of study, it was no 
effort on his part to continue it now in his busy career. 


40 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Digby’s face, very grave when in repose, nevertheless was 
capable of a sudden, swift, and wonderfully bright glance, 
and when something really pleased him his smile was like a 
flash of sunshine. His deeply set dark eyes were capable of 
expressing many emotions, and but for his lips, which were 
firm and inflexible in outline, might have told his thoughts 
too freely. 

Apart from his work Digby was a pleasant fellow. When 
he was the man, not the doctor, he could be genial, jolly, 
pleasant in speech, and sympathetic in manner. 

Other men spoke of him as a “right good fellow,” and, al- 
though he had hitherto made no special friend of any one 
woman, all women liked him. 

As physician, however, Digby showed a considerable 
portion of the reverse of this pleasant picture. He could be 
sharp, stern, unmerciful to the smallest negligence on the 
part of those whose duty it was to carry out his orders. With 
a keen word, and a keener glance, he would tear all flimsy 
excuses to tatters. No nurse who failed to carry out her 
duty could look for mercy at his hands. 

In the hospital Digby’s unswervingly high sense of duty had 
produced a moral reform. The nurses, who began by dislik- 
ing the man who expected so much from them, ended by adopt- 
ing his standard, and striving to obtain the hearty word of 
thanks which always awaited them when they had helped to 
bring one of the doctor’s patients through the dark valley 
of the shadow of death into the bright sunshine of health. No 
one could give more hearty and unqualified praise than Digby. 
He was as lavish with approval, when it was honestly earned, 
as he was with blame when it was needed. 

From the medical students the house physician at St. 
Christopher’s exacted even more than he did from the nurses. 
He had no patience with young fellows who were not in love 
with their profession. 

“It’s the grandest or the basest thing in the world to be a 
doctor,” he was often heard to say. “The man who takes up 
the medical profession ought to love it better than his life. 
Neither the desire for money nor for fame ought to influence 
him. The Heaven-born doctor has been sent into the world 
to make suffering less. Every day in his life he has to keep 
death at bay. It is impossible for him to treat his calling 
lightly.” 

The clinical clerk, therefore, had often a bad time when 


THE HOUSE PHYSICIAN. 


41 


Digby was at St. Christopher’s, and he rejoiced to think 
that he was the means of pulling some tares out of the wheat. 
Nothing pleased him better than to open the eyes of the 
medical students who had no real love for their calling, and 
to get them to adopt some other means of earning a living 
before it was too late. 

On the morning on wdiich Cecilia Harvey left the hospital, 
Digby, having dismissed the last of his out-patients, came 
upstairs to go the round of the wards. 

For some reason he did not feel in a good temper, and the 
clerks who accompanied him knew that they must be careful 
to miss no word which their superior spoke, or his eagle eye 
would be certain to mark them out for instant and severe re- 
proof. 

The accident which had occurred the night before had 
roused the doctor’s very keen anger. Part of this had been 
directed toward the ignorant young nurse, but the larger share 
of Laurence Digby’s wrath had been turned in upon himself. 

In so critical a case why had he accepted the help of an un- 
trained and nervous girl? Suppose, owing to his own folly, 
Number Three in the children’s ward had died under the 
operation? 

Poor little boy — Tommy, Nurse Harvey had called him — 
suppose Tommy had died? 

The doctor gave an inward shudder as he recalled the 
narrow shave which his little patient had undergone. 

He thought of him the moment he entered the children’s 
ward, and gave but scant attention to the other cases, so anx- 
ious was he to see Number Three. 

Tommy wa^f better ; the doctor gave a quick sigh of relief. 

The swe#t little face, very pale, very tiny, very pathetic, 
looked less painfully anxious than it had done the night be- 
fore. The blue eyes raised to the doctor’s face were full of 
baby peace, the small beautiful mouth was restful. 

“This child is doing well, Nurse?” said Digby, speaking 
in a tone of interrogation to Sister Agatha. 

She nodded a quick response. “I had little hope of him 
until an hour ago,” she said; “since then there has been a 
marked change for the better.” 

The doctor proceeded to put the usual questions, looked at 
the card which recorded the child’s temperature when it was 
last taken, then he applied his stethoscope to the little chest. 

“Yes,” he said, smiling down affectionately on Tommy, 


42 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“you are much better, my little man. I told you last night 
that if you were a good boy you would most likely get well. 
See what comes of being a good boy. You are really getting 
well.” 

Tommy’s lips moved. Digby bent over him. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

“Tell her to come,” said Tommy. “The lady wot kissed 
me. Tell her to come back.” 

The child’s few words were so clear and so sweet, that 
they were heard, not only by doctor and nurse, but by all the 
students who had gathered round the bed. 

Sister Agatha found herself flushing angrily. She bent 
forward, almost pushing Digby aside. 

“If Number Three will be a good boy,” she said, “he shall 
have everything that is necessary for him.” 

She fixed her stern gray eyes on the child as she spoke. 

Her words took instant effect. The little eager, longing 
face grew faintly pink, the small head sank deeper into the 
pillow, the baby lips did not speak again. 

Sister Agatha raised herself and addressed the doctor. 

“You’ll agree with me that the child is really better, Dr. 
Digby?” 

Digby, who had been looking at Tommy in some bewilder- 
ment, resumed his professional manner with a start. 

“I do think your little charge much better, Nurse,” he 
said. “There is no reaccumulation of fluid in the pericar- 
dium, and there is a regularity and tone about the heart’s 
action which tell me that the operation I performed last night 
has been successful.” 

“Is there any likelihood of the fluid returning?” asked Sister 
Agatha. 

“That is possible, but scarcely likely. The child is do- 
ing very well, and my operation has undoubtedly saved his 
life.” 

Here Digby turned swiftly, and addressed the young men 
who were standing round the child’s bed. 

“ This case, gentlemen, brings me to a most interesting dis- 
cussion,” he said. “It is well known that there is a close, 
though ill-understood relationship between the four diseases 
known as pericarditis, scarlet fever, St. Vitus’s dance or 
chorea, and rheumatic fever. Those who have suffered 
from scarlet fever seem peculiarly susceptible to rheumatic 
fever or chorea, both of which, as you all know, are the most 


THE HOUSE PHYSICIAN. 


43 


frequent causes of pericarditis. I have several times seen all 
four conditions, and never have I witnessed recovery when 
such has been the case. This child had originally scarlet 
fever in a mild degree. Rheumatic fever followed, and now 
he suffers from pericarditis. I had little or no hope of sav- 
ing the little patient last night, but now, owing to my timely 
interference, he is recovering.” 

“Pardon me,” said a voice, and one of the oldest of the 
medical clerks took a step forward. He was a big fellow, 
exceedingly well dressed. His manners were assertive, his 
eyes insolent. 

“Pardon me, Dr. Digby,” he repeated. “Do you not 
think that, had you left the pericardium alone, the condition 
of the patient would, at least, have been as well as it is now?” 

Digby’s eyes flashed with an angry fire. He paused for 
half a minute, then his reply came slowly: 

“Had you, sir,” he said, looking full at his questioner, 
“ taken the trouble to read up the notes on this case which, I 
am sure, Mr. Everard would have obliged you with, or had 
you been regular in attendance and seen the condition of the 
patient, your question, which I must call wanting in sense, 
would never have been put.” 

Phillips, the medical clerk, turned a dark red. One of the 
youngest of the students tittered. Digby thought the titter 
came from Phillips. But for this belief he might not have 
made his next remark. 

“And if,” he continued, glancing with scorn at the sulky, 
conceited youth, “you would learn, Phillips, to pay less atten- 
tion to your button-hole and the set of your tie, and give 
more time to reading up your cases, it might be better for 
you. Come, gentlemen, we will see how Number Four 
fares.” 

The whole party moved on to inspect the next patient. 
Phillips accompanied the others, the dull red which suffused 
his face giving place to a deadly pallor. 

During the rest of the morning Digby’s irritation of man- 
ner was so marked that it was noticed by more than one nurse 
and medical student. 

Late that evening two of the students were standing to- 
gether in the entrance-hall. Digby walked past them on his 
way to his own rooms. He was off duty to-night, and was 
going to take a few hours’ rest. 

“They say that Digby is one of the cleverest men in the 


44 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


medical line that we have ever had at St. Christopher’s,” re- 
marked one of the students to his fellow. “ It is a pity that 
he won’t be with us much longer.” 

“Is his year in office nearly up?” asked the other. “I can 
never imagine St. Christopher’s without Digby.” 

“Well, it will have to do without him. His time as resi- 
dent physician will have expired in a month or two. It is 
my belief that some of our feilows will be very glad when he 
goes. It’s all very well to be so sure of your popularity that 
you think you can say anything, but Digby may go too far. 
He did give Phillips one for himself to-day.” 

“Oh, didn’t he!” laughed the other man, “and didn’t 
Phillips look uncommonly sick?” 

“Well,” said the medical student who had spoken first, 
“you know Phillips is not a fool, and lots of good men ques- 
tion the advisability of touching the pericardium. I know 
Fairfax does, for I heard him say so the other day.” 

“ Right or wrong, I am very glad Digby did sit on Phillips 
this morning,” answered the other man. “Phillips wants 
taking down a peg. Digby is the best fellow in the world, 
and knows his work well. I cannot understand Phillips — he 
is always asking Digby questions with a view to humiliating 
him. I think for some reason he is jealous of him.” 

The two students were standing on one side of the wide 
entrance-hall. At this moment their attention was arrested 
by the appearance of a young lady who came timidly forward 
and addressed a question to the hall porter, which he did not 
immediately answer. The color flushed into her face, and 
her eyes met those of the student who had stood up for 
Digby. 

He recognized her with a start — she was the pretty nurse 
who had spoken to him that morning, and asked her way to 
the out-patients’ department. 

With a queer sense of confusion, for he did not know what 
to make of her altered dress, the young man came forward 
and said in a respectful tone : 

“Can I do anything for you?” 

“Oh, thank you,” said Cecilia — she smiled gratefully, she 
also remembered him. “I used to be a nurse here,” she said, 
“but I have left. You directed me to the out-patients’ part 
of the hospital this morning. I wanted to see Dr. Digby. 
I want to see him now again. He asked me to call about 
nine o’clock.” 

“He is in his own room at this hour,” said Ashley, the 


THE HOUSE PHYSICIAN. 


45 


young medical clerk; “this is his week off duty, so he is 
pretty sure to be at home. I will go and tell him you are 

here, Miss ” he hesitated, waiting for Cecilia to supply 

the name. 

“Miss Harvey,” she said, “please tell him that Miss Harvey 
has called by appointment.” 

Digby had forgotten all about Cecilia’s promised visit. 
The day had been a particularly busy one — the child Tommy 
Constantine was doing well, and the doctor no longer had him 
on his mind — the whole circumstance, therefore, of last night 
had passed into oblivion, and when Ashley said that a young 
lady of the name of Harvey wanted to see him, Digby looked 
up from the heap of papers he was busy sorting with an irri- 
tated and puzzled expression. 

“I do not know the name,” he said. 

“She used to be here as one of the nurses,” said Ashley. 

The doctor’s brow cleared. 

“Ah yes — now I remember,” he said. “Show her in, 
Ashley ; she wants to ask me a question. I told her she might 
call.” 

Two or three moments later the doctor’s room door was 
again opened, and Cecilia entered. 

“I beg your pardon,” said Digby; he started to his feet, 
the color suffusing his face. “The fact is, I forgot you were 
coming — I beg your pardon for troubling you to come here to 
see me.” 

Inwardly he was soliloquizing : 

“ These lady nurses are always putting one in the wrong. 
One never knows how to treat them. As nurses in the hos- 
pital they are bound to obey their doctor — once they leave the 
hospital they take the position of a lady toward a gentleman. 
I have taken a liberty with this girl in asking her to call on 
me here. She is undoubtedly & lady, and I have not treated 
her as such.” 

“Sit here,” said Digby aloud, motioning Cecilia to take 
possession of his own comfortable chair. “ Did anyone bring 
you? Did you come from far?” 

“I have come from Harford Square, where my aunt lives,” 
she replied, looking at the perturbed doctor in a puzzled way. 
“Of course I have come alone.” 

“I will see you back,” said Digby, “or rather, I will send 
for a cab, and you shall drive back. This is no hour for you 
to come here by yourself.” 

“ Oh, it is no matter, I am quite safe, I was very anxious 


46 


THE MEDICINE LADT. 


to see you, and when one is anxious, the little trouble I have 
taken means nothing — nothing whatever.” 

“You want to ask me a question. I remember you were 
troubled about the child. I can relieve your mind on his ac- 
count — he is doing well; he will live.” 

“ I am very, very glad !” 

“Yes, you have cause to be grateful. The kind of accident 
which occurred last night might have been fatal to the little 
fellow.” 

“I know,” said Cecilia. She lowered her eyes; her lips 
trembled. 

The doctor looked at her with an expression on his face 
which said plainly, “Now I have answered your inquiry, I 
hope you will go away.” 

Cecilia did not see Digby’s eyes; she was thinking. After 
a time she raised her head. 

“You don’t think me fit for a nurse?” 

“ Of course I don’t. I told you so this morning. The fact 
is, I don’t approve of lady nurses. You are a lady; you are 
meant to grace your own sphere.” 

“Please don’t talk conventionalities,” said Cecilia impa- 
tiently. 

“I will say nothing further. You are unfitted to be a 
nurse. I am glad that you are going to take to something 
else.” He looked toward the door as he spoke. Would not 
Miss Harvey understand that he wished her to go; would she 
have no pity on the scant leisure of a very busy man? 

She was lost in her own thoughts, and did not stir. 

. After a time she said, slowly: 

“I heard one of the students say, as I passed through the 
entrance hall, that you were off duty to-night. Does that mean 
that you are at leisure?” 

“It means, Miss Harvey, that I have got an hour or two 
at my own disposal. Do not imagine that these precious hours 
have nothing to fill them. When you came in I was engaged 
in scientific research of an important nature. Do you know 
what that means?” 

“I do not quite know, but I am sure it is interesting. I 
love science.” 

Cecilia’s eyes were lit up with a surprisingly bright ray. 
The doctor could not help smiling. 

“ Indeed !” he said. “ I did not know thht science came in- 
to the lives of young ladies.” 


THE HOUSE PHYSICIAN. 


47 


“If you will try and think of me,” said Cecilia, “as a girl 
— not as a young lady and — if you will believe that I have a 
very real and earnest wish to make something of my life, per- 
haps you will change your tone, and be less — less slighting.” 

The doctor felt too astonished to speak. 

“And,” she continued, “I am going to make a request. 
I know you wish me to go away, but as you have a little 
leisure this evening I am going to ask you to devote some of 
it to me.” 

“Oh, certainly,” said Digby. He relapsed into another 
chair with an inward groan. 

“I know you are a kind man,” said Cecilia. 

“ I am not sure about that, Miss Harvey. I am a man with 
a strong temper and ” 

“I won’t take you at your own estimate,” interrupted 
Cecilia. “ I know you are very kind, and I have no one to 
advise me. I would not come to you if I had anyone else. 
Please give me your reasons for saying that I ought never to 
be a nurse. Please give me your real reasons.” She raised 
her eyes imploringly. 

No face could look sweeter than hers, no voice could utter 
its desires in a clearer and yet in a more pathetic tone. 

Dr. Digby was a gentleman. The expression of annoy- 
ance passed now from his face. He was truly sorry that he 
had ever asked Miss Harvey to visit him in his private room, 
but now that she was here he could not tell her to go against 
her will. He must make the best of circumstances, and speak 
as wisely and as much to the point as he could. 

“I can give my reasons in a few words,” he said. “You 
are physically unfit for the duties of a nurse.” 

“Oh!” interrupted Cecilia, “you are looking at the matter 
from a medical point of view.” 

“It is the only point from which I can possibly regard it. 
If girls who mean to take up the profession of nursing 
would have the good sense to consult their family doctors be- 
fore entering on the life, it would be an admirable thing for 
them and for the unhappy patients who are to be victimized 
by their want of skill and nerve.” 

“But the patients upstairs are fond of me. I could always 
make little Tommy happy, and in the women’s ward — oh ! I 
could do a great deal for those poor women. They did not 
only want to be fed and doctored. Most of them had troubled 
hearts, and I could soothe their troubles. Is that no part of 


48 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


a nurse’s life? I think it ought to be. I think there ought 
to be a special nurse to go round the wards and cheer the souls 
of the patients a little.” 

“You are a queer girl,” said Digby. “I believe there is 
something in your words, and as a nurse of that sort you 
might, with training, be invaluable. Do you know that little 
Tommy asked for you to-day? He would have given a great 
deal to see you. You might visit a hospital two or three 
times a week. I am sure you would be very popular as a 
visitor.” 

“ You have not yet told me why I am not to be more than 
a visitor.” 

“My dear young lady, you are unfitted for the life; you 
have a very highly strung, nervous organism, you are not 
strong, you are impulsive. You are not calm in a moment of 
danger. That you have strong sympathies, that you have the 
kindest of hearts, I feel assured, but these things do not go far 
when courage, calmness, and self-possession are wanting. It 
is a sad fact that the best nurses are not those who feel too 
much. You feel things a great deal too much.” 

“Thank you,” said Cecilia. The color rushed all over her 
face. “I did not know before what a nurse ought really to 
be. Sister Agatha is probably your idea of a perfect nurse.” 

“Sister Agatha is an admirable nurse,” replied Digby, 
with emphasis. 

“I hate Sister Agatha,” retorted Cecilia, with equal em- 
phasis. She rose as she spoke. 

“I will ring and order a cab for you,” said the doctor. 

“No, please don’t; I prefer to walk home. Before I go, 
I want to say one thing more. I was coming through Ward 
B this morning — the ward where I was on duty. There was a 
woman in the ward — I think she is called Number Forty-eight. 
It is a horrid practice to call people by numbers; I never 
would adopt it. To me the woman was Mrs. Murray (she 
liked to be called Mrs. Murray). She was very ill this morn- 
ing; she said she was dying. Mrs. Murray’s husband is a 
bad man; he is in prison somewhere. She asked me to meet 
iiim when he came out and to take him a message from her. 
She was just going to tell me the name of the prison wdiere 
he is serving his time, and to give me a message, when Sister 
Agatha came and insisted on my going with her to see Sister 
Monica. I never got Mrs. Murray’s message. Would it be 
possible for you, Dr. Digby, to get the message and send it 


THE HOUSE PHYSICIAN. 


49 


to me? Even if I am never to be a nurse, I should like to do 
the last thing that poor creature wants doing for her.” 

Digby took out his note-book. 

“In which ward is the woman?” he asked. 

“Ward B in the left wing.” 

“And what is her number?” 

“Forty-eight,” replied Cecilia. 

“I will try and do what you want,” he said, “and will 
write to you. What is your address?” 

“My aunt is called Mrs. Lancaster. She lives in 50 Har- 
ford Square, Bloomsbury.” 

“Thank you, I will write to you there if the woman whom 
you call Murray is alive and I can get her message to give 
you. If you do not hear you will know that the poor creature 
has died.” 

“I hope — I earnestly hope that she will be alive.” 

“I hope so, too, if she has anything on her mind.” 

“You won’t forget to speak to her, Dr. Digby?” 

“No, I never forget the things that I have promised to at- 
tend to.” He smiled as he spoke. 

“I have no excuse to stay longer,” said Cecilia. “I am 
going back now to my aunt’s; you have taken my last hope 
away.” 

“I am sorry for that; but, forgive me, you speak like a very 
young girl; you will have plenty of new hopes to-morrow.” 

“I do not know; I shall probably go into a shop.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“ I cannot stay with the Lancasters more than a day or two, 
and I have no money of my own.” 

“Why cannot you stay with your relatives? You are the 
sort of girl who ought to be in a comfortable home, who 
ought to do nothing but play the piano, and sing, and do fancy 
work, and pour out tea in the evening. I had a sister once 
who was something like you.” 

“ Oh, and did she live that horrible existence?” 

“Do you call it so? It is woman’s true province — making 
a home happy. My sister died.” Digby ’s face looked sad. 
“ We were all very tender with her,” he said; “we would not 
let a rough breath blow on her. She was something like you. 
I know now whom you have reminded me of from the 
first.” 

His face was full of sympathy as he spoke; he came close 
to Cecilia and looked at her so earnestly, with such a fixed 


50 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


gaze of tender memory and softened, sorrowful admiration, 
that she turned away at last in distress. 

“Forgive me,” he said in his brusque way, “I was think- 
ing of my young sister. You will stay with Mrs. Lancaster; 
you are not at all strong, you ought not to have any rough 
work in life. We all have our fitting portions; the back is 
suited for the burden. Your’s must carry a light weight.” 

“ Good-by,” she said, holding out her hand to him. Her 
eyes were full of tears. 

The doctor took her hand, held it limply between his own, 
dropped it, and turned away. When he looked round Cecilia 
was gone. He had forgotten all about the cab he meant to 
order for her. He was so lost in reverie that he did not notice 
when she walked to his room door, opened it for herself, and 
closed it softly behind her. 

CHAPTER VII. 

A TEST AND A RESULT. 

Mrs. Lancaster felt that Cecilia Harvey had no just 
claim on her. She was her dead husband’s niece, not her 
own. 

In Mrs. Lancaster’s opinion Cecilia was a self-willed, dis- 
agreeable girl. She refused to walk in the beaten paths, and 
that fact alone was an unpardonable sin in the eyes of this ex- 
cellent but narrow-minded woman. 

Had Cecilia been a good, amiable girl, had she acted as 
Millie and Charlotte and Helena would have acted had they 
been similiarly placed, Mrs. Lancaster felt that no one could 
possibly have been kinder than she would have been. She 
would have looked out for a very nice situation for her niece. 
She would have made careful inquiries regarding the family 
with whom she placed her. She would have ascertained all 
necessary particulars with regard to their morals, their re- 
ligion, their ways and doings. Cecilia should have two or 
perhaps three (Mrs. Lancaster felt sure in her own mind that 
she would not allow her niece to undertake the charge of more 
than three) “sweet little girls.” These children should love 
her, be devoted to her, think no one like her. Cecilia should 
be an ideal governess and live in an ideal home. 

Then in the holidays, who so glad to receive her as Aunt 
Charlotte? She would have an affectionate welcome from her 


A TEST AND A RESULT. 


51 


aunt and from her cousins; and her salary, Mrs. Lancaster 
resolved, in her own mind, should be further eked out by the 
present of sufficient material in good Cheviot serge to make 
up a winter dress, or if the time was summer one or two of 
Millie’s cast-off gowns might be lengthened to fit her. 

Mrs. Lancaster thought with satisfaction that if these things 
could only be, if Cecilia could only be turned into a model 
niece, how very admirably she would pose as a model aunt. 
If there was one thing more than another in this world of tears 
which the good lady prized it was the esteem of her fellows. 

She was not aware herself of this very marked feature in her 
character; she little guessed when her name headed subscrip- 
tion lists, and when she exerted herself for the bazaar for the 
Blind Boys’ Mission, and for the concert for the Orphan 
Daughters of Poor Curates, that Mammon in reality had a 
larger share in the affair than God. 

Mrs. Lancaster knew nothing of this. On the contrary, 
she thanked her Maker day by day for making her not as 
others, and went through life with a beaming ray of self-con- 
tentment in her heart. 

Cecilia was, however, in all particulars the reverse of the 
model niece. She w r ould not be a governess, and now she had 
ignominiously failed as a nurse. 

Mrs. Lancaster sent her up to her attic, and spent the rest 
of the day mourning over her delinquencies. 

At dinner that evening, after the solemn function of par- 
taking of the watery soup was over, Mrs. Lancaster observed 
Cecilia’s vacant place at table, and vouchsafed to comment 
upon it. 

“Where is your cousin, Helena?” she asked of her youngest 
daughter. 

“ Mamma, Cecilia told me to tell you that she had a bad 
headache, and did not want any dinner.” 

Mrs. Lancaster was about to remark severely on the subject 
of her niece’s headache, when there came a loud interruption 
from the other end of the table. 

“Hullo!” exclaimed George, “you don’t mean to tell me, 
Lena, that Humpty Dumpty is back again?” 

“ I w r ish you would not call your cousin by that objection- 
able name, George,” said his mother. 

Young Lancaster shrugged his shoulders impatiently. 

“I say, Lena,” he repeated, “has Cecilia come back?” 

“Oh, yes, George; she arrived after breakfast to-day.” 


52 


TEE MEDICINE LADY. 


“About half -past eleven,” said Chatty. 

“No, Chatty, not so late as that, for the fire wasn’t long 
slacked down.” 

“Who cares about the fire?” interrupted George. “So 
Cecilia* is back? I suppose she has got a couple of days’ 
holiday? Why isn’t she at dinner?” 

Millie, who always took her cue from her mother and had 
been watching her parent’s face, now remarked lugubriously: 

“No indeed; Cecil is not taking a holiday.” 

“I grieve to tell you, George,” said Mrs. Lancaster, “that 
Cecilia has made a sad fiasco of her nursing career. I knew 
this would be the case, but I did not think, even in my most 
dismal forebodings, that she would have been sent from St. 
Christopher’s in disgrace.” 

“Hallo!” said George. “Too pretty, I expect. Jealousy 
is sure to be at the bottom of it.” 

This remark was like a bomb-shell, and voices rose at once 
in angry protest. 

“George! What do you mean? Cecilia is not a bit 
pretty.” This was Millie’s remark. 

“Poor, gawky, overgrown thing!” This came from 
Chatty’s lips. 

Helena was silent, she looked at her plate. 

Mrs. Lancaster, too, was silent, but her eyes flashed fire in 
a very ominous fashion. 

“Jealousy, jealousy,” remarked George. “You know per- 
fectly well, girls, that none of you can hold a candle to 
Humpty Dumpty. She’ll be an awfully pretty girl some 
day, and for my part I think her good-looking now.” 

“My dears,” said Mrs. Lancaster, raising her voice in 
solemn and full tone above the babel of the young ones, “we 
will, if you please, cease to discuss your cousin’s appearance. 
We all know, all of us who read our Bibles, what the wise 
man says of mere good looks, ‘Favor is deceitful and beauty 
is vain.’ ” 

“Oh, come now, mother,” exclaimed George. “You know 
you can't mean that beauty is vain.” He gave his mother 
a quick, half comical, half shame-faced glance which she in- 
terpreted with much uneasiness. 

During the evening and the night which followed the good 
woman had an anxious time. 

It would be too awful if George took it into his head to 
flirt with Cecilia. 


A TEST AND A RESULT 


53 


Mrs. Lancaster loved her son George after the fashion of 
such mothers. She would heap upon him every good thing 
that harmonized with her own wishes, hut if he were to lose 
his heart to a penniless girl she would oppose him with all 
her strength, and frustrate his wishes by every device of 
which her essentially feminine heart was capable. 

Mrs. Lancaster knew nothing of her niece’s evening visit 
to St. Christopher’s. She heard her neither come in nor go 
out; she imagined she was suffering from a headache in her 
own room, and, althought herself a truly Christian woman, 
it did not occur to her to pay a visit of condolence to the suf- 
fering girl. 

Had she done so, had she seen the empty nest from which 
the willful little bird had flown, and perceived that Cecilia 
had only made a flimsy excuse not to appear at dinner, many 
subsequent events might never have occurred. 

It was late when she returned to Harford Square. She 
still felt a good deal excited, and ran swiftly lip to her attic 
unperceived by anyone in the house. 

The fire which had been lit in the morning had long ago ex- 
pired, and the little room looked empty and desolate. She 
threw off her gray cloak and tossed her hat on the bed, and, 
clasping her hands before her, sank into a chair and sat lost in 
thought. 

Her visit to Digby had both excited and disappointed her. 
She had hoped against hope that he would retract his ver- 
dict of the morning, that even if he did not think it well for 
her to return to St. Christopher’s he would use all his influence 
(and surely the house physician’s influence was immense) in 
trying to get her a post in another hospital. 

But Digby had said that under no circumstances could 
Cecilia resume her duties as riurse. It was not in her to be 
a good nurse. 

“Not in me,” repeated the willful girl under her breath, 
“when my whole soul and all the strength of my nature longs 
to relieve suffering, to help the sorrowful, to lighten the lot 
of those who are in pain. I know Dr. Digby is mistaken, 
and yet what happened last night — oh, is it really only 
twenty-four hours ago — will come between me and my 
chances of receiving a post as nurse in any other institution 
forever. I must give it up; I must turn to something else. 
Nothing will induce me to be dependent, and I won’t teach 
— I won’t, because I can’t. Now what shall I do?” 


54 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


An hour or so earlier, as Cecilia was leaving St. Christo* 
pher’s, she came face to face with Phillips, the handsome but 
conceited medical student who had received Digby’s rebuff at 
the clinical lecture with so bad a grace. 

Phillips was very quick at recognizing faces, and the 
moment he saw Cecilia, in her gray cloak and big black hat, 
he knew her to be the young nurse whom more than one 
student had admired for the indefinable charm which she un- 
doubtedly possessed. Cecilia was looking really pretty at this 
moment, her cheeks were suffused with that lovely rose color 
which added to the expression of her face, and brought out 
the latent power of her intellect. It was a face full of soul, 
of tenderness, of regret, of sweetness, that glanced at Phillips 
as she went hurriedly by. 

“I say,” he exclaimed, “you are Nurse Harvey, are you 
not?” 

“I was Nurse Harvey,” said Cecilia. “I am no longer 
connected with the hospital, therefore the word nurse ceases 
to apply to me. Good-evening.” 

She bent her head with a slight stately inclination and 
walked on. Phillips did not attempt to say anything more, 
but he knew well enough that she had just come from Digby’s 
room. This little circumstance was to bear fruit by and. by, 
but Cecilia forgot all about it as she sat in her attic and 
thought about her future. When the house was quiet, and 
she imagined that every soul in it had gone to bed, there 
came a tap at her bedroom door, and Helena, her youngest 
cousin, came in. 

“How is your headache now, Cecil?” 

“Quite well, thank you,” answered Cecilia. “You ought 
to be in bed, Lena.” 

Helena glanced at the cloak and hat which were lying 
carelessly across Cecilia’s little bed, then she glanced at her 
cousin, and a mischievous smile played round her lips. 

“You ought to be very fond of me,” she said, “for I have 
been feeling dreadfully wicked on your account. I knew you 
had gone out, but I told no one. It was wicked of me to keep 
it from mamma. You ought to be grateful to me — are you, 
Cecil? — for I have committed a sin on your account.” 

“Oh no, you have not,” said Cecilia, springing to her feet 
and kissing her cousin, “you are much the best and much the 
nicest, and by and by you will be far and away the prettiest, 
of the Lancasters. You are the only one of my cousins I am 


A TEST AND A RESULT. 


55 


a bit fond of. I did go out on important business, and you 
are never to tell — never, never, never! Now, good-night.” 

“ You won’t tell me about it?” said Helena, in a wistful 
voice. 

“I cannot say anything, but that I love you. Kiss me; 
run away now, or Aunt Charlotte may hear us talking.” 

Helena warmly returned Cecilia’s embrace, then she ran 
out of the room. 

The next day Mrs. Lancaster informed her daughters that 
one or two friends were coming to dinner. 

“You must put on your best dresses,” she said. “I want 
you all to look particularly nice, for Mrs. Dairy mple will be 
here.” 

“Anyone else, mamma?” asked Chatty. 

“Only George’s friend, Mr. Phillips. By the way, he is a 
St. Christopher’s man. Do you happen to know him, Cecilia?” 

“Perhaps I do,” said Cecilia; “I may know him by sight, 
but there are so many medical students at St. Christopher’s 
that I cannot possibly say whether I am acquainted with this 
Mr. Phillips until I see him.” 

“He is coming to dine to-night,” repeated Mrs. Lancaster. 
“ George has invited him. George and he are special friends. 
I am anxious to meet him, for I hear he is a charming young 
fellow. His talents indicate for him a career of great 
promise, and he has a large private income besides.” 

Mrs. Lancaster left the room, and Chatty immediately 
turned to look gravely at her two sisters. She then said: 

“ Who do you think mamma really means us to put on our 
best frocks for, Mrs. Dalrymple or Mr. Phillips?” 

“Hush!” said Millie. “You shouldn’t say those sort of 
things, Chatty. It i&^rery disrespectful to mamma, and you 
know she is quite the last person in the world to have ideas 
of that sort.” 

“ Of what sort?” asked Chatty. 

“I am not going to say — don’t let us talk of it any more. 
Here comes mamma. Mamma, do you know that the white 
dress I wore at the Cravens’ a week ago is very dirty and 
tossed, and Chatty’s pink evening dress is torn in front. We 
have nothing that can be really called best to put on to- 
night.” 

“Oh dear, how provoking!” exclaimed Mrs. Lancaster, 
“that will never do. I particularly want you all to look nice, 
for Mrs. Dalrymple has not seen you for years,” 


56 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“What are we to do, mamma?” asked the gentle Millie, “we 
really have nothing else to wear.” 

“I shall buy you new sashes when I go out, and your dresses 
must be ironed over by Hamilton. Helena, it doesn’t much 
matter about you; you are quite a child still, and I know one 
of your muslin dresses was washed last w T eek, you shall wear 
that. ” 

“It is hideous, mother.” 

“Never mind, you must be satisfied. A washing muslin is 
quite the correct thing for a little girl.” 

Helena pouted, the color flushed into her face, and she 
looked down angrily. Presently she looked up and said, in a 
questioning voice, in which there was some small suppressed 
malice : 

“Mother, you can’t say that Cecilia is not grown up; what 
dress is she to wear?” 

“That is her own affair,” answered Mrs. Lancester, in an 
icy voice. 

That evening the two elder girls came down to dinner in 
pretty dresses with new sashes. Helena, looking something 
like Cinderella, only without the smuts, followed in her sisters’ 
train. George was standing by the fire, and he pulled his 
younger sister toward him. 

“You look all right,” he whispered — then he added quickly, 
“Helena, let me introduce you to my friend Phillips.” 

Phillips, who was really a very handsome young man, 
condescended to speak kindly and pleasantly to Helena, and 
the child, delighted with his notice, soon forgot her shabby 
frock. 

Mrs. Dalrymple, an elderly lady, unremarkable in every 
sense of the word, was presently announced. Dinner 
followed, and the little party went down to the dining room. 

They were all seated at the table when Cecilia, looking 
flurried, nervous, and slightly defiant, came in. There was 
an empty chair exactly facing the one in which Phillips was 
sitting; she dropped into it and began hurriedly to unfold 
her napkin, and partake, with a hand which shook, of the 
soup which the waiter, hired for the occasion, placed before 
her. 

Cecilia had not attempted to dress for dinner; her dark 
dress was high to the throat, she had pinned a lace ruffle round 
her neck, which was kept in its place by a lovely pearl brooch, 
which she had inherited from her mother, and, careless of the 


A TEST AND A RESULT. 


57 


incongruity of pearls and serge, she had stuck a butterfly of 
the same into her bright hair. 

No one made any remark when she came in, but when at 
last she took courage to raise her eyes, she found that both 
Phillips and George were bestowing upon her frequent and 
earnest glances. 

Phillips was amazed to find that Nurse Harvey was a rela- 
tion of the Lancasters. George was exultingly saying to him- 
self that he was right about Humpty Dumpty, and that she 
was undoubtedly growing prettier every day. 

“By Jove! I never met a girl like her,” he kept saying 
under his breath. “ If she was dressed as she ought to be, 
and if she was properly fed, why she’d take the town by storm.” 

Phillips, too, was struck by the fact that Cecilia’s face was 
a peculiarly interesting and uncommon one, but his heart felt 
absolutely cool and indifferent to her, and his mind, which did 
dwell upon her as the most interesting person present, was 
only anxiously revolving in what way he could make use of 
his knowledge of last night in order to humiliate Digby. 

As the Lancasters were neither intellectual nor, in the 
strictest sense of the word, society people, the conversation 
which took place at their table belonged, as a matter of 
course, to a very narrow order of small talk. 

Mrs. Lancaster got all her ideas of politics from certain 
newspapers of a narrow evangelical bias. Her views on life 
in general were gathered from her own meager experience, 
from the parish magazine (a novelty twenty years ago), and 
from the gossip at the Dorcas Society, of which she was an 
active member. 

Mrs Dalrymple also belonged to the Dorcas Society, in its 
infancy, too, in those days, for befriending young servants. 

Mrs. Dalrymple sat next to George, who had taken her 
down to dinner, and while he listened to her small remarks on 
the depravity of the masses, and on the valiant efforts their 
Christian clergyman, Mr. Ward, made to redeem them, his 
eyes constantly traveled to where his cousin Cecilia sat in 
her old lace ruffles, pearl ornaments, and serge dress. 

Phillips, who was obliged to make himself fairly attentive 
to Millie and to reply to Mrs. Lancaster’s prosiest of conversa- 
tion, was also watching Cecilia, but with a very different 
motive. He was fond of coming to sudden conclusions, and 
the flush of excitement on the ex-probationer’s face the night 
before did not escape him, 


58 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


If she had left St. Christopher’s, what was she doing in 
Digby ’s room? Was she interested in Digby? Did he ad- 
mire her? 

Phillips had a scrupulously polite air and manner. He re- 
plied to every word his hostess addressed to him. He gently 
tickled Millie’s vanity by paying her the sort of compliments 
which a well-bred man can address to a girl who considers 
herself a lady. These delicately veiled speeches were new to 
her, and she found them very sweet. She little guessed that 
the thoughts of the young man who addressed her in such 
pretty language were in reality far away. He was watching 
his turn to come to a conclusion which might be arrived at 
through diplomacy. 

Mrs. Lancaster did not know why she began to speak of St. 
Christopher’s Hospital. Phillips was politely pleased to reply 
to the questions she chose to put to him. He drew her on to 
ask for particulars with regard to his life and work. He re- 
plied in that clearly modulated voice which can always be 
heard a good way off. 

By degrees a silence fell on the rest of the company. They 
were all listening to Mrs. Lancaster and Phillips. He glanced 
across at Cecilia; she had dropped her knife and fork. The 
hired waiter offered her an entree , which she declined. 

“ Oh, if you want me to tell you about the doctors,” said 
Phillips, “there is no one to compare to Digby — Laurence 
Digby. He’s what you call a popular man — very much ad- 
mired — especially by the nurses.” 

Phillips thought that Cecilia would drop her eyes when he 
made this last remark. She did not; on the contrary, she 
raised them, and fixed them on his face. 

He gave her a swift glance, and went on talking as calmly 
as if he did not know that her color was coming and going, 
and her heart was beating more quickly than was good for 
her. 

“Yes,” continued Philips, “Laurence Digby is the man 
at St. Christopher’s. There’ll be weeping and wailing when 
he goes, as go he must in about three months’ time. He’s the 
house physician now, and that post is only open to him for 
about a year.” 

“You speak of Dr. Digby as if he had been at St. Christo- 
pher’s for a long time,” remarked Mrs. Lancaster. 

“So he has,” replied Phillips. “He had just been made 
assistant house physician when I arrived, having gone through 


A TEST AND A RESULT. 


59 


the lower grades to the satisfaction of the authorities. Digby 
has always taken a considerable amount of authority on him- 
self, but nurses like that sort of thing.” 

He laughed, and glanced at Cecilia. 

Mrs. Lancaster, who had followed his eyes, hastened to 
keep him from addressing her niece. 

“ Pardon me for saying such a thing, Mr. Phillips, but you 
speak as if you did not personally care for this favorite 
doctor. ” 

Phillips shrugged his shoulders and spoke lightly. 

“What is my opinion worth?” he said; “I am only one of 
the dressers. No, of course, Mrs. Lancaster, you don’t know 
what that means — I will explain it another time. When Digby 
leaves St. Christopher’s he is certain to buy a West-end prac- 
tice — that is, if he has money. We none of us can tell 
whether he is rich or poor. He is rather a mystery to us, 
but that rather enhances his value.” 

“What aged man is he?” 

“Not young for his present post; about two-and-thirty, I 
should say.” 

“Is he really clever, Mr. Phillips?” 

“Oh, as to that, it is not for me to say. We all have our 
special ideas with regard to talent. He is fully qualified, if 
that is what you mean. He took his degree at Cambridge, 
and is now M. B. of London. Yes, as far as qualifications 
are worth, Digby is competent to fill any post.” 

“Yes; but is he really clever? You ought to tell us, Mr. 
Phillips. Ought he not, Mrs. Dalrymple? It is so nice to 
get behind the scenes, and anything said — in confidence , you 
quite understand, Mr. Phillips, that not a syllable will go be- 
yond our own circle. But it is so nice to know the real truth 
about a man of some distinction, as your friend, Dr. Laurence 
Digby (his name is particularly attractive) undoubtedly is — a 
man who is about to buy a West-end practice — my friend 
Mrs. Dalymple lives near Cadogan Square, she might have 
occasion to call him in.” 

“It would only be in case of Dr. Macpherson’s death,” said 
Mrs. Dalrymple solemnly. “ I make a rule of never chang- 
ing my family doctor.” 

“Yes, dear, but Dr. Macpherson is over seventy, he cannot 
last forever; we all know that even doctors are mortal. As 
the Bible tells us, ‘ All flesh is grass.’ Now if Mr. Phillips’s 
friend were to settle anywhere near you it would be so nice 


60 


THE MEDICINE LADT. 


to know something about him ; it would make you feel so safe. 
Now, Mr. Phillips, you will give us your real opinion of this 
favorite physician with the romantic name. I am confident 
you are keeping something back.” 

“Nothing,” said Phillips, “nothing whatever. You ask me 
if I think Digby clever. I do. As to his rashness ” 

“Oh, is he rash?” 

“ I am wrong to say that — he is daring and brave — he does 
things that I should hesitate to do, but then I am only a 
humble dresser. A case occurred only two nights ago at the 
hospital — a child was ill, and Digby performed an operation. 
The child did not die, although he was very near dying, but 
Fairfax, one of our visiting physicians, and my opinion coin- 
cides with his — Fairfax, 1 understand, disapproved of Digby’s 
action. The child escaped with his life, however, so nothing 
more will be heard of the matter.” 

“You have not told the truth,” said Cecilia suddenly. 

All eyes were turned on her. She bent forward in her seat, 
the color had flown from her cheeks, her eyes were widely 
dilated. 

“I was present when that operation was performed, and you 
are not telling the truth about it. The child was dying — in 
ten minutes he would have died. Dr. Digby performed an 
operation and saved his life.” 

“Cecilia!” said her aunt, in a voice of ice, “Cecilia, you 
forget youself ; be silent !” 

“ I will be silent, Aunt Charlotte, when I have said what 
I know. Mr. Phillips has given you a false impression of Dr. 
Digby. He is not rash, he is not reckless. He can make up his 
mind quickly, and he can be prompt in action. There is no one 
more worthy of regard than Dr. Digby. He is the truest and 
best man I have ever met.” 

“Bravo, Humpty Dumpty!” came from George in an irre- 
pressible burst from the other end of the table. 

A queer flash, half of triumph, half of anger, lit up Phillips’s 
eyes. He turned to Mrs. Lancaster, and said with an ill-con- 
cealed sneer: 

“ I told you that all the ladies admired Digby. ” 

“I must apologize for my niece,” said Mrs. Lancaster, “she 
is a very impulsive girl, and does not mean half she says. 
Pray forgive her rudeness, Mr. Phillips.” 

“ Granted,” said Phillips. “ I have had many opportunities 
of studying the feminine mind, and at St. Christopher’s, at 


A TEST AND A RESULT. 


61 


least, I always perceive that it suns itself in Dr. Digby’s 
presence.” He paused after this, and then said, bending 
slightly toward Mrs. Lancaster : 

“ I thought I knew your niece’s face ; I have met her several 
times at St. Christopher’s, but, of course, a nurse’s dress and 
cap much alter the general appearance; still, I thought her 
face was familiar.” 

“ She has been at St. Christopher’s exactly a month,” said 
Mrs. Lancaster. “I did not approve of her going as nurse 
there. She has now returned to me, being declared unfit for 
the post. Mrs. Dalrymple,” turning toward that lady, 
“shall we go into the drawing room?” 

In the course of the evening Phillips made his way to the 
distant sofa where Cecilia w T as sitting talking to Helena. 
He bent over her, and said in so low a tone that the other girl 
could scarcely hear the words : 

“You surprised me at dinner.” 

“You did not surprise me,” answered Cecilia, in a quick 
retort. “ I have often seen you at the hospital, and, although 
I did not recognize you by your name when my aunt said 
you -were coming to dine, the moment I saw your face I felt 
that you were the kind of man who would speak as you did 
of Dr. Digby. It is impossible for a man like you to under- 
stand a man like him.” 

Cecilia’s words were not low, and Helena gazed at her 
cousin in unconcealed amazement. 

Phillips flushed the ugly red he had done when Digby re- 
proved him before the medical students. His words, how- 
ever, were always w^ell under control, and, after a very short 
moment of silence, he once more bent dow r n and said in a calm 
and gentle voice : 

“Whatever you may feel about me, I must repeat my last 
observation ; your remark at dinner astonished me. I should 
have thought, from the reports which reached me, that you 
would feel even more strongly than I do the imprudence of 
Digby’s action on the night in question.” 

“ What do you mean?” asked Cecilia. 

“Reports reached me that on that night you accused 
Digby of positive cruelty. I have never gone that 
length.” 

Cecilia’s face grew white, her lips trembled. She tried 
to answer Phillips, but no words came. After a moment she 
turned to Helena. 


62 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“Come to this table with me,” she said, “I want to show 
you something.” 

Phillips walked away well satisfied. 

He did not care to know anything more about Cecilia’s 
sentiments. 

“I have tested her,” he said to himself; “I have made two 
experiments on her — she has responded admirably to my 
touch.” 

He resumed his conversation with Millie Lancaster, and 
went away that evening, having charmed everyone in the 
house with the exception of Cecilia and George. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

A HAPPY THOUGHT. 

George Lancaster was Phillips’s special friend, but on that 
evening he bade him a cold good-night, and made up his mind 
that he was not quite such a delightful fellow as he had hither- 
to considered him. Lancaster came back to the drawing room 
to find everyone gone to bed but Cecilia. She had stayed be- 
hind ostensibly for the purpose of putting away some books 
and papers; in reality, because she did not want to go up to 
her room until her aunt and cousins bad shut themselves into 
theirs. Had Mrs. Lancaster known that George would come 
back to the drawing room she would certainly have remained 
up for another hour rather than leave him alone with his 
cousin just then. 

He strolled into the room in the half -reluctant, half -leisurely 
fashion of a person who is not quite on the best terms with 
the world. When he saw Cecilia he gave a start of pleasure. 

“Hallo, Humpty Huinpty!” he said, “that’s right — you 
haven’t gone to bed. Come and sit by the fire, and let’s have 
a talk.” 

“I can’t, George. I am very tired and — and sleepy.” 

George came round the room, and stood by the table where 
Cecilia was putting the books in order. He peered forward, 
and looked into her face. 

“I say,” he exclaimed, “your eyes are red! What’s the 
matter?” 

“Nothing, George; nothing.” 

“ Hid that brute of a Phillips hurt you at dinner? I saw you 
were awfully upset. I admired your pluck. You are just 
the sort of girl to give Phillips one for himself. I am so glad 


A HAPPY THOUGHT. 


63 


you did. I think he is a beastly, conceited sort of sneak — he 
wants taking down a peg.” 

“George!” said Cecilia in astonishment, “I thought Mr. 
Phillips was your friend.” 

“ He used to he, but I shall drop him if he sets you crying. 
Don ’t, Humpty , I hate to see your eyes red . I like you awfully, 
you know. You know that, don’t you, Humpty?” 

* “You have always been kind to me, George. Now I must 
go to bed.” 

“Well, I wish you wouldn’t. You might talk to a fellow. 
It’s beastly dull in this house, I can tell you. Mother has 
such poky ideas about things, and one never sees a pretty face. 
It’s all right when you are at home, of course — you are pretty 
enough to please any fellow; but when you are away!” 

“I shall soon be away 'again, George. I am very much 
obliged to you for being kind, but I must say good-night now.” 

She was running out of the room, when George, with a 
stride or two, overtook her. He caught hold of her hand, and 
tried to draw her toward him to kiss her. 

At this instant Mrs. Lancaster, in her flannel dressing gown, 
opened the drawing room door and came in. 

George, a very well-meaning, good sort of fellow, had not 
the moral courage to face the situation. He turned and fled, 
leaving Cecilia to face her angry aunt alone. 

“Well, miss,” said Mrs. Lancaster, “what am I to think of 
you now, Cecilia?” 

“You may think what you please, Aunt Charlotte. George 
is a very good fellow, and he is fond of me in a cousinly way. 
lie tried to kiss me just now and I would not let him. I don’t 
wish him to kiss me, and I would much rather he were not 
kind. I am going to my room now, Aunt Charlotte. I am 
not to blame in any way, but I don’t think you need feel 
alarmed about George ; he is not the least bit in love with me.” 

“What a brazen girl you are, Cecilia!” 

“Am I? You seem to think all people brazen who speak 
the truth. May I go to my room now? I have really done 
nothing to be ashamed of.” 

Mrs. Lancaster motioned with her hand to indicate to her 
niece that she might leave her. The girl ran past her like a 
flash. 

Mrs. Lancaster forgot the special errand which had brought 
her down to the drawing room. She walked slowly upstairs, 
revolving many anxious schemes in her mind. 


64 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“Why has Providence given me such a thorn in the flesh 
as Cecilia Harvey?” she mentally soliloquized. 

On her way to her own room she was obliged to pass 
George’s door. Her impulse was to open the door and to go 
into the young man’s room, and tell him what she thought 
of his conduct. But Mrs. Lancaster was too diplomatic to be 
always guided by her impulses. She resolved, contrary to 
her inclination, not to say anything to George, but to remove 
Cecilia from Harford Square on the following morning. 

She thought and thought over the matter. It gave her a 
sleepless night, but at last, with the dawn, an idea came to 
her. The more she thought of it the more feasible it grew. 
She resolved to act upon it, and having made up her mind 
she fell into a comfortable sleep. 

Mrs. Lancaster was well known for her charity. She had 
thought of a scheme in the gray and early hours of the morn- 
ing, which would not only rid her of Cecilia, but do a substan- 
tial kindness to a poor and distant relation. Her good deed 
could be spoken about to her friends, and would thus add to 
her own importance. She rose, therefore, in a cheerful frame 
of mind, and came down to breakfast in an excellent humor. 
George and Cecilia were present. She was most amiable to 
them both. George felt immensely grateful to her, and Cecilia 
had never thought her Aunt Charlotte nicer. She felt quite 
puzzled at the gentle way in which she was addressed, and be- 
gan to reproach herself for the unkind thoughts which she had 
given to this good aunt during the past night. 

After breakfast George 'went away quite happily to his 
work in the City. He could not help giving a wistful look at 
Cecilia as he left the room. She did not even see this affec- 
tionate glance, but his mother did, and she felt more that ever 
pleased with herself for having devised that little scheme in 
the early morning watches. 

“I think,” said Mrs. Lancaster, addressing her daughters 
as they were about to leave the room to fetch their work, 
“ that I shall send you three girls out for a good brisk walk to 
Regent’s Park this morning. Millie, you are looking quite 
pasty, and a walk will be of service to you. You can all start 
early and have a pleasant time.” 

“May we ride in an omnibus part of the way, mamma?” 
asked Chatty. 

“My dear Chatty, don’t talk nonsense ! What are young 
legs made for? You are all perfectly strong, and the walk 


A HAPPY THOUGHT. 


65 


■will do you a world of good. Now off with you at once and 
get ready. Susan,” addressing the parlormaid, who came in 
with a large scuttle of wet coal, “you can slack the fire very 
well this morning, for we are going out.” 

“May Cecilia come with us to the park, mamma?” asked 
Helena, excitement lighting up her eyes. 

“No, my dear, no. Cecilia and I are going to have a little 
expedition on our own account. Lena, follow your sisters. 
Run away at once, my love. No, no, you are not going to 
coax our secret out of us.” 

Cecilia was standing in the enclosure of one of the windows. 
Her face was pale, her expression lacking in interest. 

“I have no secret to tell you, Helena,” she said in a listless 
voice. 

“There, my love, you hear what Cecilia says. I have not 
told her yet of the nice little surprise I have in store for her. 
Run off at once, Lena, you see I am in earnest.” 

Helena ran up to Cecilia, kissed her impulsively, and left 
the room. 

A quarter of an hour later the three girls were seen walk- 
ing across the square on their way to Regent’s Park. 

Mrs. Lancaster went over to the window to see them depart; 
then she turned to her niece. 

“Now, Cecilia,” she said, “I mean to take you out with 
me. Run upstairs at once, my dear, and put on your hat and 
cloak.” 

Cecilia obeyed without a word. 

When she entered her attic the first object that met her eye 
was her own modest trunk strapped and locked. One of the 
housemaids was just leaving the room. 

“ What is the meaning of this?” she said, pointing to her 
trunk. 

“I have just packed it, Miss Harvey. Missis gave orders 
through Hannah. She says ‘Tell Jane to pack Miss Harvey’s 
trunk and strap it.’ I don’t think I has left out anything, 
Miss ; all the drawers is empty. Why, Miss, you do look queer. 
I hasn’t done nothing wrong, has I? Them was missis’s 
most positive orders.” 

“Oh no, Jane; you have done quite right,” said Cecilia. 

“I was only a little star ” She checked herself. “It’s 

quite right, Jane,” she said, holding out her hand to the.girl. 
“ Shake hands and say good-by. I’d give you a shilling if 
I had the money.” 


66 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Jane wiped her hand on her apron before she held it out. 

“Oh, Miss,” she said, “as if I’d take your money; I do 
like you, Miss Cecilia, and I’m really sorry as you’re going, 
and I wouldn’t touch your money, Miss, for you hasn’t none 
too much. They do say things in the kitchen, and we all know 
what’s in missis’s mind. But I do like you, Miss, and I’m 
sorry you’re going away. Good-by, Miss Cecilia.” 

Jane left the room. Cecilia put on her hat and cloak, took 
up her gloves and umbrella, and ran downstairs. 

Mrs. Lancaster was standing in the hall. A cab was at the 
door, and Cecilia’s small trunk was on the roof. 

The two ladies got into the cab and drove away. Mrs. 
Lancaster felt sure that her niece would ask her innumerable 
questions, but Cecilia did not make a single inquiry. 

She sat prefectly still by her aunt’s side, and her young face 
wore a rather stony expression. 

The cab rattled and lumbered along, and at last brought its 
occupants to King’s Cross terminus. Mrs. Lancaster haggled 
with the cabman about his fare, but in the end was forced to 
pay what he asked. She then took a second-class return 
ticket for herself to Highgate, and a second-class single one 
for Cecilia. 

The train came up, and the aunt and niece got into a second 
class compartment. They were alone in the carriage, and 
again Mrs. Lancaster looked at Cecilia, expecting her and 
wishing her to speak. 

Cecilia had seated herself by one of the windows. She 
kept looking steadily out, and Mrs. Lancaster could only get 
a glimpse of her delicate and rather pretty profile. 

At last the elder lady felt her patience exhausted. 

“Cecilia,” she said, “have you nothing to say to me?” 

Cecilia turned slowly and spoke in a calm tone. 

“ I don’t think I have, Aunt Charlotte. At least I have 
nothing special to talk about at this moment.” 

“Don’t you wonder where we are going?” 

“No.” 

Mrs. Lancaster felt as if she could shake her niece. 

“You are a most exasperating girl,” she said. “You know 
perfectly well that you are dying to know why I am taking you 
to Highgate.” 

“I#m not. I am not sufficiently interested to have my 
curiosity aroused, but if you wish me to ask you questions 
I will do so. Why are you taking me to Highgate?” 


A HAPPY THOUGHT. 


GY 

“Ah! now you are sensible. I am taking you to a friend 
of mine — a Miss Timmins.” 

“Timmins? I never heard of her.” 

“Well, you hear of her now; she will give you a home for 
the present.” 

“Oh; I don’t want to live with Miss Timmins.” 

“You must sometimes do what you don’t want to do. It is 
not convenient to have you in Harford Square any longer.” 

“I know that, Aunt Charlotte.” 

“So you are coming to stay with Miss Timmins.” 

Cecilia again turned to look out of the window. After a 
time she asked, still keeping her face away : 

“ Does Miss Timmins expect us, Aunt Charlotte?” 

“She does not.” 

“ But you are bringing my trunk. ” 

“It is all right; I know how to arrange matters. Here 
we are; *you can get out.” 

Cecilia and her aunt both alighted on the platform of the 
country station, and a few minutes later both ladies found 
themselves walking down a narrow lane that led to Miss 
Timmins’s house. 

It was a very tiny house to be led to, even by an unsophisti- 
cated country lane. It stood a few feet back from the road, 
and had a small old-fashioned garden in front. 

Mrs. Lancaster pulled the bell at the gate, and presently the 
green hall door was opened, and a thin, reed-like old woman, 
wearing a cap of rusty black, came out. 

She gave a great start, and turned first pale and then red 
when she saw Mrs. Lancaster. 

“Yes, my dear,” exclaimed the good lady, in her fullest 
and mo M unctuous voice, “ it is really me. I have come to 
pay you a little visit, and I have brought my niece with me, 
Cecilia Harvey. May we come in?” 

“Certainly, certainly!” exclaimed Miss Timmins. 

She tripped down the path to unlock the gate, and Cecilia 
had time to observe that she had holes in her stockings, and 
that her list house slippers were broken at the toes. She also 
noticed that Miss Timmins wore a very dirty dress, and that 
her hands looked like those of a housemaid who wore no 
gloves when she polished the grates. 

Notwithstanding her decidedly seedy appearance Mrs. Lan- 
caster was very affectionate to Miss Timmins. She called her 
Abigail, and inquired for her cough. 


68 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“It racks me and hacks me as much as usual,” replied Miss 
Timmins, “but it isn’t worth inquiring about, for I have had 
it now for over thirty years, and I am accustomed to it. Will 
you come into the kitchen, Charlotte, there’s no fire in the 
parlor?” 

Mrs. Lancaster replied amiably that she would be very 
pleased to sit with Miss Timmins in the kitchen, but that she 
would be equally glad if her niece, Cecilia Harvey, could be 
accommodated with a chair in the parlor, as she wanted to 
have a little conversation of a private character with her friend. 

Miss Timmins’s parlor had the musty smell of a room that 
is never used. There was a table in the middle, on which re- 
posed a huge photographic album on a wool mat. In the 
center of the table was another wool mat, on which a glass case 
with wax flowers stood. There were six chairs in the parlor, 
which were all placed modestly against the wall ; short, green 
moreen curtains festooned the windows, a carpet made of 
faded Kidderminster covered the floor, and a great thick rug, 
which Miss Timmins must have knitted out of bits of cloth 
cut in strips, stood before the empty grate. The walls of the 
room were covered with a paper of a very large pattern, and 
the mantelpiece was adorned with three more cases of wax 
flowers reposing on wool mats. 

Over the mantelpiece was a framed sampler, which recorded 
that Abigail Timmins had executed this finished piece of art 
when she was eleven years, five months, and a fortnight old. 

Cecilia had the pleasure of standing in this dreary parlor 
for the best part of an hour. During that time she examined 
every article of furniture in the room, looked at all the pho- 
tographs in the album, and finally occupied her mind with a 
sum of mental arithmetic regarding Miss Timmins’s present 
age. 

As the date of the year in which the sampler was finished 
was recorded on it in very neat sampler stitch, she was able 
to arrive at the conclusion that Miss Timmins would have a 
birthday in one week, and that she would then be fifty-eight 
years of age. 

Cecilia had just finished her sum when her aunt came in and 
spoke to her. 

“Good-by, my love,” she said. “I trust you will be very 
happy here. You must write to me, Cecilia, if you want any- 
thing, only please understand that I don’t wish you to come 
to see me.” 


AN IMPULSIVE INMATE . 


69 


“But, Aunt Charlotte, Aunt Charlotte ” 

“I can’t wait, my dear Cecilia, I have only just time to 
catch my train. One of the porters will bring up your trunk 
presently. Good-by.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

AN IMPULSIVE INMATE. 

Cecilia turned round slowly, to see Miss Abigail Timmins 
gazing at her with a wistful expression. The moment Cecilia 
saw that look on the old lady’s face her heart softened; she 
went up to her in her impulsive fashion and took her 
hand. 

“Do you w r ant me to stay with you?” she asked. 

“Well, my dear,” said Miss Timmins, “it’s Charlotte Lan- 
caster’s -wish. There never was a more remarkable woman 
than Charlotte; it is her wish, and she always carries out her 
wishes, so you and I have got to submit, my dear.” 

“I am truly sorry for you,” said Cecilia. 

“Thank you,” replied Miss Timmins; “I frankly admit 
that it is a heavy trial. My house is very small, and I ^have 
only one bedroom. Do you mind sleeping in my room, dear 
Miss Cecilia Harvey?” 

“I think,” said Cecilia, “that it would be a much better 
arrangement if you allowed me to sleep on the sofa in this 
nice parlor.” 

“ Oh !” said Miss Timmins with a shudder, “ I never did 
think that I should come to such a depth of degradation as to 
turn my parlor into a bedroom.” 

“But I should only just sleep here,” continued Cecilia 
eagerly, “and I would take away all the bedclothes before 
you got up in the morning. No one could know anything 
about it. I think,” she continued, “that it would do the 
parlor good, for it smells very damp and musty.” 

“ Do you think so?” said Miss Timmins. She looked around 
her anxiously. “I light a fire here always once during 
the winter,” she said; “the room ought not to smell musty; 
you make me very anxious, my dear.” 

“Oh, pray don’t mind what I say; the musty smell may be 
my fancy. Suppose, to make all things sure, however, that 
we light two fires in your parlor this winter, and the second 
fire shall be in my honor. May we have a second fire to- 
day, Miss Timmins?” 


70 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Miss Timmins began to count slowly on her fingers. 

“Wait awhile,” she said, “I must put the expense down 
on a slate. I am to get so much per day for you, and I must 
find out, before I commit any extravagances, if the profits of 
having you in the house will admit of having an extra fire in 
the parlor to-day.” 

The old lady left the room, and Cecilia, rubbing her eyes 
once or twice to make quite sure that she was not dreaming, 
stood and looked out of the tiny lattice window. 

It was winter, but the lane outside was adorned with holly 
bushes and various other evergreens. 

“ While Miss Timmins is calculating whether she can give 
me a fire or not, I shall go out for a walk,” she said to herself. 
She opened the parlor door and stepped across the narrow 
passage to the little kitchen, where the old lady was bending 
with puckered brows over a slate. 

“I know you have got a shock,” said Cecilia, “and, as I 
said before, I am truly sorry for you. But please don’t be 
too unhappy, for I am very easily pleased, and after awhile 
you will get accustomed to me, and perhaps you will not 
find me such a bad sort of girl as Aunt Charlotte has given 
you to understand I am. Oh, you need not speak; I know 
Aunt Charlotte’s opinions about me perfectly well. I am 
going for a walk now; I shall be out for an hour or two, but 
do not be a bit anxious, I shall come back just about the time 
when you have recovered from the shock of having to take 
me in.” 

Miss Timmins looked nervously at the eight-day clock 
which ticked in a corner of her small kitchen. 

“As a rule, I dine at one,” she said, “but your coming has 
upset my dinner preparations. If you go for a walk now, my 
dear Miss Harvey, what are you to do for dinner? I cannot 
offer you any before you start.” 

“We won’t have dinner to-day,” said Cecilia, “we will 
have high tea instead.” 

“High tea?” questioned Miss Timmins. 

“Yes,” continued Cecilia, with a sparkle in her eyes, “quite 
a delicious high tea; and while we are eating it I will tell you 
about some of the things that happened when I was nurse at 
St. Christopher’s. You don’t know what an entertaining girl 
I can be when I please. I am going out now, and I don’t 
wish for dinner.” 

Cecilia felt a brief passing desire to offer Miss Timmins a 


AN IMPULSIVE INMATE. 


n 


kiss, but on reflection she resolved not to become so affec- 
tionate until she had induced the old lady to wash her hands 
and face very thoroughly. 

She went out, shutting the small green hall door behind her. 

Twenty years ago the beautiful suburb of Highgate was 
really a country place. Cecilia loved the country, and not- 
withstanding the perplexities and irritations of her present lot, 
she thoroughly enjoyed her walk. She left the narrow, wind- 
ing lane, in which Miss Timmins’s house stood, far behind her, 
and walked up a shady road that took her to the top of High- 
gate Hill. She had a lovely view from there, which she 
much enjoyed gazing at. Her spirits rose as she walked. 
After all it was much more interesting to live with poor old 
Miss Timmins than with Aunt Charlotte and George and her 
three girl cousins. She made up her mind to be contented 
with her lot for at least a day or two. 

“I feel quite sure that I can consult Miss Timmins about 
my future,” she said to herself; “a woman who, at eleven 
years, five months, and a fortnight, could have worked such 
a splendid sampler as I saw framed in the parlor must be a 
person of vast experience. 1 noticed by Miss Timmins’s 
hands, too, that she is not afraid of hard work. I am not 
afraid of hard work, either; I should not fear to turn to any- 
thing that I felt I could do. Of course, if my lot in life is to 
clean grates I shall stipulate for gloves; and I am sure I can 
afford to tie an apron over my hair to keep the dust away 
when I am sweeping a room.” 

Cecilia was out very nearly two hours. On her return 
home she passed some shops. These shops brought to her re- 
collection the high tea she proposed to eat with Miss Timmins 
that evening. As she had not tasted food since the early 
and not too liberal breakfast at Harford Square, she was now 
thoroughly hungry. She put her hand into her pocket, and 
took out her purse. There was very little money in Cecilia’s 
purse. A ten-shilling piece, a half crown, a shilling, and 
three halfpence, represented her worldly all. She resolved, 
however, that, come what might, she and Miss Timmins 
should fare well that evening. She had spoken of high tea, 
and she herself would be responsible for its appearance on 
Miss Timmins’s board. 

On her walk home she made some judicious purchases. 
First of all she visited a dairy, where she bought a quarter of 
a pound of the best butter and threepennyworth of cream. 


72 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


The woman who served in the dairy was attracted by Cecilia’s 
face, and, although she certainly knew nothing about her, did 
not scruple to lend her a tiny can to hold the cream. In another 
shop she purchased a loaf of new bread and some fresh, tempt- 
ing looking scones. A little further on she saw a basket in a 
window containing brown eggs, labeled “New Laid.” They 
were twopence apiece, but Cecilia went to the extravagance of 
buying four. Finally, she purchased a quarter of a pound 
of tea and a pound of loaf sugar, and, well laden, she re- 
turned to the cottage in Green Lane. 

Miss Timmins opened the door the very instant Cecilia rang 
the bell. She looked much less limp than she had done when 
Mrs. Lancaster arrived that morning; her sunken eyes w£re 
bright, and she had evidently made a valiant attempt to tidy 
her person, for her hair was pushed smoothly back under her 
rusty cap, her face was clean, and her poor, worn hands 
were partly hidden by black lace mittens. 

“Oh, you dear!” said Cecilia. She went straight up to 
the old lady and kissed her. “ Miss Timmins, you look quite 
sweet. Now do see all these things I have brought in. These 
are new laid eggs ; this parcel contains groceries ; here are 
nice, fresh scones; and this little jug contains cream; and see! 
I haven’t forgotten some really good butter !” 

“My dear,” said Miss Timmins, turning pale, “but where 
did you get the money? Your Aunt Charlotte would be ab- 
solutely shocked.” 

“Hurrah!” said Cecilia. “There is nothing in the world I 
should love so much as to shock Aunt Charlotte.” 

Miss Timmins tried to look stern, but a twinkle came into 
one of her eyes, and Cecilia perceived it. 

“My dear,” she said gravely, “you do wrong to speak in 
that reckless fashion, and you acted imprudently in spending 
your small money on this — this lavish feast. It is impossible 
for me to pay you back for it, my dear child. Your aunt — I 
will say it in confidence — makes a very modest allowance for 
your keeping here.” 

“ I have no doubt of it,” said Cecilia ; “ but we will talk of all 
that presently. Wrong or right, I am going to enjoy my tea. 
May I take my hat and cloak off? and then may I come to 
the kitchen and get it ready? You are to sit in a chair and 
watch me while I prepare the meal.” 

“I could not do that,” replied Miss Timmins. “I permit 
no one to interfere with my domestic arrangements.” 


AN IMPULSIVE INMATE. 


73 


“ But you look so tired, and I [am young and fresh and 



“You look very young and fresh and bonny,” said Miss 
Timmins, “ but, even co, I am not going to allow my work to 
be taken from me. I see that you are a kind-hearted girl, 
and it isn’t your fault that you have been sent where you are 
not wanted. It is very good natured of you to buy this excel- 
lent food out of your own money, and I do not pretend that I 
am not glad to have it. My own income is very limited, and 
cream in my tea and new laid eggs are luxuries which I used 
to have long ago, but not lately, my dear — not at all lately. 
I will prepare the tea myself, Miss Harvey, but as you have 
brought in the things and spent so much on them they will 
really last a very long time. [Cecilia gasped inwardly when 
this remark was made.] I will do what lies in my power to 
please you. You are doubtless not accustomed to sitting 
in the kitchen. We will have a fire in the parlor to-night, 
and have tea there.” 

“Oh, thank you,” said Cecilia, “but I love kitchens. I 
would much rather sit in your nice kitchen for my tea.” 

“Would you, really and truly?” 

* Really and truly I would.” 

“Well, then, let it be so; but you shall have a fire in the 
parlor all the same when we have finished our meal.” 

The only drawback to that high tea was Miss Timmins’s 
desire to put by all the food until the next day. Cecilia, 
however, saw that this was an occasion when firmness would 
be necessary. 

“I am starving,” she said, “and you can’t prevent my 
wishing to eat the food I bought with my own money.” So 
the three scones were toasted, and the new laid eggs were 
boiled, and the tea in the little teapot was not too weak, and 
Cecilia would help herself to as much of her own fresh butter 
as she wished to eat. 

Miss Timmins grew pale, and sighed every time her guest 
placed a fresh bit of food upon her plate, but presently the 
influence of a cheerful fire and a cheerful young face, and the 
abundant food that graced the board, had the effect of thawing 
the wintry heart of poor Miss Abigail Timmins, and she 
leant back in her chair and really enjoyed herself when Cecilia 
told her stories about the hospital. 

“ I will not ask her to give me any of her experiences of life 
to-night,” thought the young girl. “ I shall have to stay with 


74 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


her a day or two, and there will be time enough to learn her 
experience to-morrow or the day after. To-night I shall just 
devote myself to amusing her. Poor thing ! how she coughs, 
and how thin she is, and how awfully afraid that I shall break 
something each time I move ! Poor Miss Timmins, she is 
really very ill! She is the kind of woman who would be 
given any amount of nourishment if she came to St. Christo- 
pher’s. I know she half starves herself — she has starved her- 
self so long that she has ceased to be very hungry. Oh, dear! 
I am very sorry for her ! I should like to make her life a little 
brighter.” 

The fire in the parlor was not large, for Miss Timmins was 
as prudent with regard to coal as she was about all other 
matters; nor was the sofa a soft bed, nor were the bedclothes 
which covered it at all abundant — nevertheless, Cecilia, 
young, strong, and interested in the queer new phase life was 
presenting to her, laid her head on the horsehair sofa, and 
in a moment or two was in the land of dreams. * 

She was awakened presently by the terribtensound of a 
person coughing and gasping violently. 

Miss Timmins slept in the room overhead, and the cough 
proceeded from her throat. 

“ Oh, poor thing !” thought Cecilia, “ she ought to have some 
one with her. I do believe she’ll choke. Now, what would 
they do at St. Christopher’s for a woman who coughs as badly 
as that? I think they would give her a hot drink. I will 
get up — I will go into the kitchen and warm some tea and take 
it up to her.” 

Cecilia rose at once and struck a light. She opened the door 
of the parlor, and went across the passage to the kitchen. 
To her disappointment she found that the door was locked. 
She stood still and considered. She had no means of warming 
a drink for Miss Timmins in the parlor, for the little fire had 
long ago expired. She stood in the passage listening. The 
sounds of coughing had ceased. The next moment a door up- 
stairs was opened, and a hoarse and angry voice called out : 

“Who’s there?” 

“It’s only me,” said Cecilia, “you were coughing so badly 
that I wanted to warm a drink to bring up to you.” 

“Now you will just do nothing of the kind, Miss Harvey,” 
replied Miss Timmins, in a decidedly annoyed voice. “I 
have stipulated to take care of you and feed you, and amuse 
you to the best of my ability during the waking hours, 


BEELZEBUB. 


75 


but I will not be worried by you at night. As to my 
cough ” 

“You have an awful cough,” responded Cecilia from be- 
low. 

“Awful — do you call that cough awful? I have gasped 
and choked and barked for the last thirty years. Go back 
to bed, child, and don’t be silly; much you know about a 
cough. I am used to mine, and it isn’t worth anybody’s while 
to worry about a trifle of that sort. Go back to bed, Miss 
Harvey.” 

Cecilia did creep back to her hard bed. She felt repulsed; 
a cold chill crept over her heart. 

“No one seems to want me to be kind to them,” she thought, 
as she cuddled down under the bedclothes and tried to sleep. 


CHAPTER X. 

BEELZEBUB. 

Digby was the sort of man who never forgot a promise. 
Accordingly, poor dying Number Forty-eight in tirewoman’s 
ward was almost startled back into fresh life and vigor when 
the doctor, after completing one of his rounds, came back 
and bent over her. He began a low conversation in a very 
kind voice. 

Number Forty-nine in the next bed never in the whole 
course of her existence felt such a consuming sense of curiosity 
as during the brief moments that Dr. Digby spoke to Mrs. 
Murray. Strain her ears, however, as she would, not one word 
of the doctor’s low tones, or the faint broken whispers that 
came in reply, reached her ears. 

Digby took Mrs. Murray’s hand when he bade her good-by. 

“ God bless you !” he said in a deep tone, and then he strode 
down the room, looking neither to right nor left. 

“What is it? Do tell me what the doctor wanted with 
you, Mrs. Murray?” asked inquisitive Number Forty-nine. 

But Number Forty-eight was even now too far under the 
influence of the Shadowy Presence which men call Death to 
make any audible answer; her dim eyes could scarcely see, and 
her dying voice could scarcely be heard. 

The nurse who bent over her, however, caught a few words. 

“Eh, but he’s a good man, that doctor, bless him, bless him ! 
And she’s a sweet young lady May Heaven reward her I” 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


76 


The nurse could not help wondering who Number Forty- 
eight meant by the “sweet young lady.” It did not occur to 
her to suppose that the reference was to the useless probationer, 
Nurse Harvey. 

In the course of the afternoon Mrs. Murray died, but Digby 
had got all that Cecilia wanted to know faithfully recorded in 
his notebook. 

The hospital was crowded just then. Every bed was full, 
and the house physician was very busy. 

The medical students were having a specially valuable train- 
ing, for the diseases under which many of the patients suffered 
were various and interesting. 

Phillips in particular seemed now to wake up, and take, for 
the first time, the keenest interest in his work. It was im- 
possible for Digby to complain again of Phillips as wanting 
in zeal with regard to the cases under discussion. 

He felt, however, even less drawn than ever to the man. 
The dresser had not again ventured on making any openly 
slighting remark to his superior, but covert sneers were not 
wanting, and Digby felt that for some extraordinary reason 
Phillips hated him. 

It is easy in a great hospital to set rumors, good and bad, 
afloat. Rumors can arise and do much mischief without 
anyone tracing them to their foundation. 

Tommy Constantine was nearly well again. Digby, by 
his promptitude, had saved his life, and the little fellow was to 
be sent to a convalescent home as soon as he could be moved. 
Still, the small incident which occurred when Digby performed 
the operation was not forgotten, and was common talk even 
yet among the medical students. 

It was easy for Phillips, who was tolerably popular among 
a certain set, to give vital interest to all this gossip by drop- 
ping a few hints with regard to Cecilia. He mentioned 
casually the circumstance of having met her leaving the 
doctor’s room, and he hinted in quite sufficiently plain lan- 
guage that the pretty probationer had secured a very tender 
place in Digby ’s regard. 

One evening the jokes on this subject became so unneces- 
sarily disagreeable, that a young student of the name of Os- 
borne said abruptly: 

“I shall listen to this sort of thing no longer; Digby is the 
best fellow in the world. He has a perfect right to admire 
Miss Harvey if he pleases. From all I can learn she is a 


BEEBZEBUB. 


11 


very nice girl and a lady. I shall just go and tell Digby 
what you say, for I see plainly there is nothing else to be 
done in order to stop these idle and false rumors.” 

“Nonsense, Osborne! for goodness’ sake, let the matter 
drop !” exclaimed one or two. 

“No,” replied Osborne, “this kind of talk has gone on 
too long; I know well who’s at the bottom of it, and 
Digby himself must refute the charges hinted against 
him.” 

Osborne strode away at once, and a moment later was knock- 
ing at the house physician’s door. 

“May I come in?” he called out, opening the door an inch 
or two as he spoke. 

“ I am particularly engaged, but if you really want me 

Oh, is that you, Osborne? Come in, come in; you under- 
stand me well enough when I say I am much pressed for time 
at this moment.” 

“I won’t keep you, Digby. I just want to put a plain 
question to you. Do you mind?” 

“ Mind?” answered Digby. He laughed pleasantly, and, go- 
ing up to Osborne, put his hand on his shoulder. 

“No,” he said affectionately, for this medical student was 
a particular friend of his. “You may say what you please if 
you are only brief. But what a perturbed expression of face. 
Is anything up?” 

“It’s only about you. They talk such a heap of rot in the 
smoking room. The thing has been going on now for days; 
and I’m quite sure Phillips is at the bottom of it, though he’s 
too much of a sneak to show up and reveal his true colors. 
Matters were so bad to-night that I could really bear it no 
longer, so I said I would come and tell you.” 

“Yes, yes, you always were a true friend, Osborne; but 
don’t excite yourself ; I can assure you I am indifferent to 
the trash you young fellows talk among yourselves.” 

“You ought not to be indifferent to this — you can’t be, for 
a girl’s name is dragged in.” 

“A girl! Good Heavens, what do you mean! What girl?” 
Digby grew red. 

“Well, it’s that pretty probationer — that Miss Harvey, who 
was not successful as nurse. You must remember her; she 
fainted when you were performing an operation, and then she 
left the house the next day.” 

“ I remember her,” replied Digby in a stern voice, “ What 


78 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


can anyone have to say about her and me? We are the 
merest acquaintances.” 

“I can’t tell you what is said; the words in themselves are 
not worth repeating; it is more the tones, the looks, and oh, 
Digby! the jokes.” 

Digby suddenly grasped Osborne by the shoulder. 

“Look at me,” he said; “you don’t mean to say to my face 
that they couple my name with Miss Harvey’s?” 

“ They have done so for the last week or two ; even the 
nurses have hinted about it — at least, so I am told. They say 
you always took an interest in her. Oh, of course, it is all 
Phillips’s doing. He saw her coming from your room one 
evening after she had left the hospital, and then afterward he 
met her at a house where he was dining, and, as he said, the 
devil of mischief got into him, and he drew her on to stand 
up for you. She made rather a spectacle of herself before 
everyone at the table, and from what we gather told Phillips 
some home truths. He has made great capital out of that 
scene, of course hiding his own discomfiture. I have been 
told all this by one or two fellows, but now that the ball is well 
set rolling Phillips has sneaked into the background and 
doesn’t say a word. For all his bullying ways he wouldn’t 
like to feel the force of your anger.” 

“The brute!” retorted Digby. He turned on his heel, 
walked to the wdndow, drew up the blind, and looked out. 

“The gossip was so bad to-night,” continued Osborne, 
“that I could bear it no longer, and I said if there was a 
word of truth in the story there was only one simple and 
broad explanation. If you really took an interest in Miss 
Harvey, and singled her out for special attention, it was be- 
cause you liked her, and were probably engaged to her. I said 
I would go and ask you this pointblank.” 

“You did?” said Digby, wheeling round and looking at 
him. “You said we were engaged — she and I? You thought 
that would get her out of this beastly hole?” 

“Why, yes, Digby. How can you doubt it?” 

“By Jove!” retorted Digby, with an awkward laugh. “It 
would not have occurred to me, but you are a cleverer fellow 
than I thought you were.” 

“Then you are engaged?” said Osborne, flushing with 
pleasure. “Let me congratulate you. You give me leave 
to tell all those fellow r s, don’t you?” 

“I give you leave to do nothing of the kind. I shall prob- 


BEELZEBUB. 


VO 


ably see the men in the smoking room to-morrow evening, and 
you may rest assured that I shall take measures to effectually 
silence this gossip. Thank you for coming to me, but go 
now, please, for I must get on with my work.” 

Osborne felt as if an imperative hand had actually swept 
him out of the room. The door was immediately locked be- 
hind him. 

When he found himself alone, the house physician walked 
across the room to a table strewn with medical books and 
papers. At one end of the table was a long drawer. He 
pulled it open, and swept books and papers into it in hopeless 
confusion. 

“There goes my chance of solving that problem!” he 
muttered, as he turned the key in the lock and then placed it 
in his pocket. When he had done this, he walked up and 
down the room two or three times, and, goingtothe window, 
stared once more with an abstracted gaze into the night. 

There was not the least doubt that he felt very angry. 
There was a reserve about him which shrank from having his 
private affairs even lightly touched upon by his friends; but 
to be the subject of idle jest and ugly rumor, to have his name 
coupled with that of an innocent girl and made common 
property of the smoking room, brought a thundercloud to 
his brow. 

The remark Phillips had made about Digby at the Lancas- 
ters’ dinner party was true. There was no real mystery in 
the past life of the man, out he lived in such a way, with such 
impenetrable reserve with regard to his early life, that people 
were fond of alluding to what did not exist. He was an 
open-hearted, genial, and communicative man where present 
and everyday affairs were concerned, but a sealed book when 
old times were mentioned. No one at the hospital knew any- 
thing of Digby’s old times. It was known that he had been 
to Cambridge, but his Cambridge chums never came to St. 
Christopher’s. No one was quite sure about his age; no one 
could exactly tell whether he was rich or poor. It was gener- 
ally believed that he was without relations, for none ever 
called to see him, and, as far as it was known, he had no cor- 
respondence of a private or domestic character. 

Digby liked to feel that no one could gossip about him. 
He prided himself on the fact that his present life was all- 
sufficient in itself, that his doings and sayings were as open as 
the day, that even his worst enemies could say nothing behind 


80 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


his back that they would not say to his face. He was a man of 
scrupulous honor, and would not hurt a woman even in 
thought. To be rumored about, therefore, to be tattled over, 
to have his name coupled with that of an innocent girl, gave 
him torture. 

“ That fellow has raised the devil in me,” he said to himself. 
“I did not know I could feel like this. Of course, I could go 
to the smoking room and put an end to the whole affair with 
a word or two. My own emphatic denial would kill the thing 
as far as I am concerned — but what about the girl? It is a 

sin for even a breath to touch a girl’s name; and this girl 

He stopped in his eager walk, and pushed back his hair. 
“She is just the sort to be affected by it,” he said, half aloud. 
“She is defenseless, poor, and of gentle birth. Her people 
ought never to have allowed her to come to a place of this 
sort. But then, has she any people? She told me that she was 
practically without a home, and that she had no money. Yes, 
a report of this kind might undoubtedly do her much injury. 
It might ruin her if it was known.” Digby paced faster and 
faster up and down his small room. 

“So much for the world,” he said aloud. “It is quite as 
bad as the pessimists make it. That poor girl — so defense- 
less, unsuspicious, guileless. Of course, I felt angry with her 
when she made a fool of herself by Tommy Constantine’s 
bedside, but I was not angry when she came to see me the 
next morning. Her face was pathetic, her eyes were full of 
sorrow. She looked almost like a baby when she asked if she 
might not try again, if she might not once again perform her 
task, forsooth ! as if she was only meddling with a lesson book 
instead of jeopardizing the lives of human beings. I had to 
be brutal, of course, but I quite shrank into myself when I 
saw how she turned away and how pale she grew. Then, fool 
that I was, I asked her to come and see me here. I should 
not have done that. I should have remembered that devils in 
human shape like Phillips might be about, and that they 
would see her. When did the wolf ever spy out the lamb and 
not make capital out of it to his own advantage, just as this 
sneaking coward has done? 

“Poor girl, she came to me quite innocently and gladly. 
How surprised she looked when I almost expressed dissatis- 
faction at seeing her. I do not think in all my experience I 
ever came across a more unsuspicious and guileless nature. 
She reminded me of my sister Winifred, too — the same eyes, 


BEELZEBUB. 


81 


the same curving lips. She had that straight way of looking 
full at you that Winifred had. She certainly had the courage 
of her convictions in her face. 

“Now, forsooth, her name is coupled with mine, and those 
medical students think badly of her, and they say things they 
would kill any man for saying of their own sisters. 

“It is too ridiculous to drag me into it — I scarcely know 
the girl, and yet in some way I am to blame. I should not 
have asked her to come and see me at the hospital when she 
was no longer nurse. I should have recognized her gentle 
birth and her ladyhood beneath her nurse’s dress ; it was unwar- 
rantable of me to forget the fact, even though I was surrounded 
by the out-patients and she came to me with her request at a 
most unreasonable hour. Poor girl, when she did come I 
ought to have gone home with her, but I was startled by the 
sudden look she gave me. It seemed to me as if my sister 
Winifred had come back to life and had entered my room. It 
was with difficulty that I could keep from laying my hand on 
her shoulder and saying, ‘Winifred, your brother has missed 
you; his heart has been empty since you went away.’ I was 
overcome; it was absurd — I turned my back. When I looked 
again she was gone, and it was too late for me to follow her. 
Well, I suppose this matter will settle itself somehow, but I 
never felt in such a rage in all my life. I will go and see 
Miss Harvey to-morrow. I have got her address, and I have 
a message to take to her from that poor woman, Murray, who 
died to-day. As to acting on Osborne’s suggestion, why even 
if I could think of it the girl would not look at me. Well, 
I will go and see her anyhow; that is but fair, and I promised 
her I would — at least, I said I’d write. Seeing a person is 
always more satisfactory than writing. A little conversation 
clears up many fogs. 

“Yes, it was undoubtedly my fault. I should not have 
asked Miss Harvey to come and see me. I might have recol- 
lected the sort of fellows half these medical students are. I 
should like to go into the smoking room and thunder some of 
my wrath over their devoted heads! Well, when all is said 
and done, I am ?iot blameless; I should have seen that girl 
home when she did come, and then perhaps that rumor of the 
devil might never have been started. 

“As it is ” 


82 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A CONVENIENT EAVESDROPPER. 

When a man who all his life has been remarkable for quick 
decision comes to a place in his career where two paths meet 
he is very often overcome by a strong sense of irritation. 
He wishes to act quickly and promptly, as his custom is, but 
many voices rise up in argument within him, and the sense of 
being completely puzzled reduces him, for the time being, to 
a condition which is almost helpless. 

Digby spent a miserable night. He went to sleep, it is true, 
but in his sleep he had dreams — his dreams always centered 
round Cecilia. He saw her in different positions, under 
different circumstances, now happy, now miserable, but in 
every case, under every guise, her eyes were full of his sister 
Winifred’s expression, and the thought of his sister was never 
absent from Digby ’s mind as he dreamed of the young girl, who, 
until a few weeks before, had been a complete stranger to him. 

Phillips, too, came into the doctor’s dreams, and while he 
walked through dreamland in his company he had undoubtedly 
an ugly time. In short, Digby had to confess to himself that 
his night had been unrefreshing; he awoke in the morning 
still pressed with a sense of indecision, but resolved upon one 
thing— that he would see Cecilia that day. 

This one resolve brought back his accustomed firmness of 
manner. As he went his rounds through the wards no one 
noticed any difference in the house physician. One or two 
nurses looked at him a little curiously, for Phillips’s reports 
had penetrated upstairs as well as downstairs — they had even 
reached Sister Monica’s ears, and, in consequence, her manner 
was so cold that Digby wondered at it, without in the least 
attributing it to its true cause. 

Immediately after his morning rounds, he made arrange- 
ments for someone else to take his work during the afternoon. 
He was thus a free man, and could go and pay Cecilia a visit 
with an easy conscience. 

He had Mrs. Murray’s message to take to her. Nothing 
could be more natural than that he should take the message 
himself instead of sending it through the post. 

He hunted up the address the ex-probationer had given him, 
found it accurately entered in his notebook, and then started 
off for Harford Square. 


A CONVENIENT EAVESDROPPER. 


63 


He arrived about three o’clock. The days were very short 
then, for it was drawing toward Christmas, and the light 
was dim in the square when Digby mounted the steps of the 
great house and pulled the door-bell. 

It was opened.by a neatly dressed parlor maid. In answer to 
his inquiries she replied that Miss Harvey was not at present liv- 
ing at No. 50. This ‘.reply checked the doctor, and brought 
back the new and painful sense of indecision which was cloud- 
ing his mind. Should he go back to St. Christopher’s and give 
Cecilia up, or should he make further inquiries with regard to 
her? In a voice which slightly hesitated he acted on the 
latter course. 

“Can you give me Miss Harvey’s address?” he said. “I 
have a special message which I wish to convey to her.” 

“Will you step inside, sir?” responded the maid. “I will 
run upstairs and inquire of my mistress.” 

Digby was shown into the dining room, and in a moment 
or two the girl who had taken up his card ^to Mrs. Lancaster 
returned with the request that he would come up to the draw- 
ing room and see the good lady. 

Mrs. Lancaster was alone; she received Laurence Digby 
with marked cordiality. The moment she saw his name on 
the little piece of pasteboard which the servant presented to her, 
she recognized the name as that of the man whom Phillips 
had maligned at her dinner party. This fact, however, by 
no means decreased Mrs. Lancaster’s interest in the popular 
physician of St. Christopher’s. She felt just in that lonely 
and not too healthy condition when the mere fact of having 
a doctor — any doctor — in the house was comforting. She 
was very cordial, therefore, to Digby. She made him sit 
in a comfortable chair near the fire, and ordered the servant 
to bring up tea at once. 

“I must apologize for coming in,” he said, “but I have a 
message for Miss Harvey, and she gave your house as her 
address.” 

“ Poor child !” said Mrs. Lancaster, with a sigh. 

When she did this, Digby raised his rather short-sighted 
eyes and gave her a quick glance. He read the insincerity in 
her tone, and determined to make his visit very brief. 

“I will not detain you a moment,” he said, “if you will 
favor me with your niece’s present address.” 

“ There is not the least hurry,” said Mrs. Lancaster. “ I am 
quite at leisure, and I could not think of letting you go, Dr. 


84 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Digby, without giving you a cup of tea. Did you say it was 
too early for tea?” The doctor had not opened his lips. 
“We have it at any time these dark afternoons. Perhaps, 
as a doctor, you disapprove of tea?” 

“Not at all; I think tea necessary for women,” said Digby 
brusquely. 

Mrs. Lancaster smiled. 

“This Laurence Digby is a dear, delightful bear,” she 
said, under her breath. “I see he could be fearfully rude if 
he liked, but I do appreciate sincere men.” 

“Now, Dr. Digby, ”she said aloud, “you shall have your 
tea, which I maintain is equally good for men and women ; 
I will tell you about my niece Cecilia, and then you shall go 
if you like.” 

The doctor bowed. 

“I want Miss Harvey’s present address,” he said. 

“ She is at Highgate with a very old friend of mine. I 
cannot tell you quite how long she will remain there; she — 
she is a difficult girl to manage.” 

“Indeed!” answered Digby, in an abstracted voice. 

“A very difficult girl to manage,” pursued Mrs. Lancaster, 
with emphasis. “You had some experience of her whims at 
the hospital.” 

“I had, madam. I found your niece rather too abun- 
dantly supplied with those attributes which makes the charm 
of a home.” 

“Now what does he mean?” queried Mrs. Lancaster to her- 
self. “I should think, on the whole, he liked Cecilia; and 
she evidently likes him. Can I forget her face when she stood 
up for him the day Mr. Phillips dined? What could be more 
admirable than to bring about a match between my niece and 
this doctor? What a weight off my mind ! No one could then 
accuse me of having failed in doing my duty to Cecilia.” 

While these thoughts swept like a flash through Mrs. Lan- 
caster’s active brain, she became almost fussy in her attention 
to Digby. He earnestly wished himself away, and determined 
to take the first opportunity of saying good-by, if only that 
tiresome woman would favor him with the address he wanted 
and let him go. 

The servant appeared with the tea, and Digby, who hated 
tea in the afternoon, was forced to drink a rather watery cup 
of this beverage. He rose at last to his feet. 

“You will give me Miss Harvey ’s_address?” he said. “I 


A CONVENIENT EAVESDROPPER. 


85 


promised to write and tell her something with regard to one 
of her poor patients in the hospital.” 

“So kind of you, Dr. Digby. Few men living the busy 
life you do would care to humor the whims of a romantic girl 
like my niece. Yes — I ” 

“Will you let me have Miss Harvey’s address, Mrs. Lan- 
caster?” 

Now this was the very last thing Mrs. Lancaster intended 
to do ; she had not the smallest desire that Digby should see 
for himself the home where Cecilia was at present residing. 

Such a house and such a person as Miss Abigail Timmins 
would certainly have a prejudicial effect on the doctor, and 
might turn away that very palpable interest which he at 
present took in the fortunes of her niece. No; if Digby 
really liked her he must meet her at her aunt’s house, properly 
dressed like any other young lady, and regarded on all hands 
as a privileged member of an affectionate family. 

Digby’s directness, therefore, was very embarrassing, and 
Mrs. Lancaster could not help hesitating and thus driving the 
doctor into a state of inward frenzy. “My niece,” she said, 
“has only gone for a very short visit; she will be back here 
again in a day or two. Would you not like to meet her here? 
I should be so pleased if you would take us quite informally 
and come to dinner some evening. We are a very domestic 
family, and are only too glad to see any of our friends at any 
time. I am gratified at your interest in my niece, Dr. Digby. 
She is a most sweet, affectionate, and amiable girl, but she 
had her faults, and her future career troubles me not a little. 
The poor child has no parents, and she has a very restless spirit. 
Nothing will induce her to live quietly here. Even now she 
is devising wild schemes for going out into the world to earn 
her living. You, who know her slightly, can judge for your- 
self how fitted she is for a life of roughing.” 

“Not fitted at all,” said Digby. “A delicate organism, 
highly strung nerves.” 

“Yes, yes; you doctors can grasp the true situation in 
a moment. It is delightful to hear you. You have thrown 
light on Cecilia’s character. But, poor child, she is obsti- 
nate.” 

“I am sorry,” interrupted Digby; “I fear I cannot remain 
another moment. If you will give me Miss Harvey’s address 
I will write to her and deliver the message intrusted to me for 
her. About dining here? Thanks, I never dine out.” 


86 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“ I am so sorry ; my son and daughters would have been glad 
to make your acquaintance. If you will write to Cecilia and 
send your letter to me, I will forward it to her. The old 
friend with whom she is now staying never cares to receive 
visitors, and I could not, without her permission, ask you 
to call on my niece at Highgate.” 

The doctor bowed. “ Thank you,” he replied. “ I am sorry 
to have troubled you.” 

The next moment he was standing in the hall, murmuring 
to himself, “Why did not the woman say that three-quarters 
of an hour ago? I have wasted nearly an hour and gained 
nothing.” 

Scarcely had these thoughts rushed through his mind before 
a door was opened and a slim, rather awkward, and yet pretty 
girl, ran out of a room close by, and, coming up to him with 
her cheeks suffused with blushes, held out a piece of paper. 

“ I was in the inner drawing room and I heard you talking 
to mamma,” she said. “If you are Dr. Digby, Cecilia is very 
fond of you. I know she is, for her face always looks so sweet 
when she speaks of you, and she was dreadfully, dreadfully 
angry with that horrid Mr. Phillips when he spoke as he did 
about you. Cecilia is at Highgate now, and this is her address 
written on this bit of paper. Please go to see her, for I 
don’t think she’s at all happy. Mamma isn’t fond of her, but 
I am — I love her dearly !” 

No words can pen poor Digby’s astonishment as Helena 
poured forth her eager torrent of words. 

“ Go back, go back !” she said to the servant who had ap- 
peared in the hall to open the door for Digby. “ I will let 
Dr. Digby out. No, you are not to tell mamma. I know 
what I am about. Good-by, Dr. Digby. I am Helena Lan- 
caster, and I am very fond of Cecilia; this is her address. 
Please do go and see her!” 


CHAPTER XII. 

SPRING IN WINTER. 

“I have thought it all over,” said Cecilia. “For hours in 
the night I have considered the subject, and I have almost 
quite made up my mind. Miss Timmins, do you hear me? I 
have almost quite made up my mind.” 

“Yes, my dear,” said Miss Timmins, with a start. 'She 


SPUING IN WINTER. 


87 


was sitting by the fire in the kitchen. Her dinner, which 
had consisted of a poached egg on toast, was rather better 
and more sustaining than usual. In consequence, Miss Tim- 
mins was a little sleepy. 

Cecilia had spent a week with her now, and her presence 
was no longer exciting. Miss Timmins was accustomed to 
her erratic way; to her bursts of genuine kindness; to her 
queer, awkward, spasmodic attempts at housekeeping; to the 
house cleaning which resulted in the breakage of two glasses 
and a breakfast cup and saucer, a soap dish and a pane of 
glass. Miss Timmins was accustomed, also, to Cecilia’s 
pleasant and brilliant voice. It flowed on sometimes in a 
rapid torrent, sometimes with quiet depth and solemnity, 
sometimes with petulance, sometimes brimful of anger, some- 
times again tender with the sweet, cherishing love which the 
young can bestow upon the old. 

Miss Timmins knew Cecilia, her changing face, her chang- 
ing voice, her changing way, by this time. It was very nice 
to have her as a companion, but nevertheless the poached 
egg on toast made her feel drowsy, and notwithstanding the 
eager, girlish tones, she was going off very comfortably into 
the land of dreams. 

“Miss Timmins!” 

“Yes, my dear, yes.” 

“I have made up my mind what to do. May I tell you?” 

“Oh, certainly; but do you mind opening the window a 
little first, two or three inches ? I slept rather badly last night, 
and the air of this room is close.” 

“I should think it is,” said Cecilia. “There, I’ll open the 
window from the top ; that’s the best way. That’s what they 
always recommend at the hospitals. Now, may I speak to 
you, Miss Timmins? I have got my plan all ready, and if I 
don’t give it utterance at once I shall dance on my head, or do 
something else fantastic.” 

“You poor girl!” said Miss Timmins, taking the young, 
slim fingers in her own. “What it is to be youthful! It is 
years and years since I was eager about anything. But I, 
too, remember once making a plan and being eager, and 
thinking nothing like it. I spoke of my plan to one who 
knew better, and I would not listen to the good advice, and 
I had my own way, and the plan turned out a failure. After 
that I have never been eager again — never once again have 
I been eager. I was nearly twenty when I made my plan. 


88 


THE MEDICINE LADT. 


It was beautiful, like a young tree covered all over with 
spring blossoms. How could I tell that every one of its 
blossoms held a blight at the root? I was close on twenty 
when I made my plan, and before long now I shall be sixty, 
but I have never forgotten it, nor the sort of frenzy and joy 
it brought with it. I can’t make out why I was so taken 
with what was both so silly and so false, but such is youth. 
Now, child, I’ll listen to you.” 

“You have made me feel sad,” said Cecilia. “You must 
tell me about your own plan, and we will compare it with 
mine.” 

“No, child, it is buried. I would not take it out of its 
grave for the world. You may speak of your plan now, my 
dear, I am quite wide awake.” 

“You are a dear old thing,” said Cecilia, stooping forward 
and kissing Miss Timmins. “Well, I shall begin straight 
away, for if you are not impatient to talk this thing out, I 
am.” 

“Yes, my love, tell me all that is in your heart.” 

“In the first place I can’t stay here always.” 

“You cannot, my dear, for I cannot support you. Your Aunt 
Charlotte limited your visit to a month. She said she would 
pay me ten shillings a week for you, but she was distinct in 
her declaration that the visit and the pay were to be limited to 
a month. I have seven shillings a week of my own — a shilling 
a day. I don’t pay anything for the house, which belonged to 
my mother, and I have exactly a shilling a day for all the 
other expenses. That sum would not feed two people, Cecilia 
Harvey, so there’s no use trying to suppose that it would.” 

“I know,” said Cecilia, “there’s no manner of use. Be- 
sides, I would not be dependent on anyone for the world. I 
am not going back to Aunt Charlotte, for she does not wish 
for me, and I am not going to be a governess, because I cannot 
teach, and I am not going to be a nurse, because the doctors 
and nurses say I cannot nurse. So there is nothing for it but 
to do the other thing.” 

“What is that, my love?” 

“ I could be a sort of housemaid in a big house. I do love 
scrubbing and brushing, and I should wear gloves when I 
cleaned the grates, and I should tie white handkerchiefs over 
my head to keep the dust off when I swept the rooms. Aunt 
Charlotte is always saying how difficult it is to get a good 
housemaid. She says they are at a premium, and a good 


SPRING IN WINTER. 


89 


one is simply worth any money. I thought of offering my- 
self at a registry office. Why, what is the matter, Miss Tim- 
mins?” 

Miss Timmins rose slowly from her little chair by the fire. 
She was a tall, slender old woman, a good deal bent from rheu- 
matism and bad living. 

Cecilia’s speech had agitated her a good deal. It brought 
on a fit of coughing which made her quite gasp for breath. 
When she recovered herself she laid a bony hand on the girl’s 
shoulder. 

“ I must be frank,” she said. “ Of all the people I have ever 
come across, you would make the worst and the most careless 
housemaid. You would break — good heavens! think of the 
things you have broken in this house! You would leave 
dust in corners, you would forget half your work. If you 
saw a book that pleased you, you would read it, and the beds 
would never get made.” 

“I wonder,” said Cecilia sadly, “what there is that I can 
really do. I am not to be a teacher; I am not to be a nurse; 
I am not to be a domestic comfort ; I am not to be an ornament 
to the social circle ” 

“There is a ring at the door, my dear child. Will you go 
and answer it? I am not as tidy as I might be.” 

“Nor am I. I an; in an awful mess; for, remember, I did 
poach the eggs for dinner to-day.” 

Nevertheless, the ring being an imperious one, Cecilia 
slowly went to answer it. 

A couple of moments later she rushed back into the room, 
her cheeks in a flame, her eyes like stars. 

“ Miss Timmins, Miss Timmins !” 

“ Oh, my dear, what is it? Oh, my dear Cecilia! Pray 
do, Cecilia, shut the door; you have started my cough back 
again.” 

“I’m ever so sorry, but it’s Dr. Digby.” 

“Who in the name of fortune is he?” 

“The dear house physician at St. Christopher’s — the best 
man I know. Isn’t it kind of him? He has come all the 
way out to Highgate to see me !” 

Miss Timmins stared very hard at Cecilia. All in a second 
she forgot her cough and her fast-coming old age and the 
draughts in the house. 

“Where have you put the gentleman?” she asked. 

“He’s walking up and down the lane waiting for me,” 


90 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“Waiting for you? You had better show him into the 
parlor. I’ll come as soon as I have washed my face and 
hands.” 

“It’s me he has come to see.” 

“ Well, show him into the parlor. That sort of thing wasn’t 
correct when I was young, but times change. Show him into 
the parlor. I’ll be in the house, anyhow.” 

“ The parlor is so stuffy, and he is so big. I’m going to 
take a walk with him. Good-by for the present.” 

“But, Cecilia, Cecilia!” 

“Good-by, Miss Timmins; I’m going for a walk.” 

Eager steps flew up the ladder which led to Miss Timmins’s 
bedroom. The poor old lady groaned as she heard cupboards 
being flung open and drawers slammed back into their places. 

“Bless the girl!” she said to herself , “she’ll bring the house 
down about my old ears. How excited she is, and how pleased ! 
Bless her! it’s a sweet face she has, and a sweet, high spirit. 
It will take a good deal to break her spirit. She is pleased 
to see that doctor. I wonder what sort of a person he is. I’d 
like to get a peep at him.” 

As Cecilia and Higby walked up the winding lane they little 
guessed that Miss Timmins’s old face was pressed against 
the panes of her lattice window, and that her dim eyes fol- 
lowed them with anxious and affectionate speculations. 

She nodded approvingly when she went back to her fire, 
and felt well inclined to resume her interrupted doze. 

“The first thing I have got to tell you,” said Higby, in 
his pleasant voice, “is that Tommy Constantine is quite 
well.” 

He turned as he spoke, and looked full at Cecilia. The 
brightness which suddenly spread over her face seemed to 
reflect sunshine. Her eyes, glad and limpid as a child’s, fully 
returned his gaze. There was something in the unconscious 
sweet glance she gave him which set his heart throbbing. 
He forgot all that Osborne had said to him, he forgot the 
weary indecision of the last two days, and only knew that he 
was walking by the side of a girl who differed from all other 
girls in the fact that she interested him as he had often be- 
lieved no woman could interest him again. They walked 
rapidly until they reached the brow of Highgate Hill. A great 
sweep of country lay then before them, and Cecilia stopped 
to utter a glad exclamation. 

“ How I love trees and sky and fields J” she exclaimed. “ Oh, 


SPRING IN WINTER. 


91 


please, let us go away from the houses ! I see a green lane over 
there; let us get to it as quickly as possible.” 

“A green lane in winter,” said Digby, with a smile. 

“ Oh, this day is not like winter — it is spring. It is an un- 
expected spring day,” replied Cecilia. “ My lane over there is 
very green, and we must get to it.” 

“But what are my patients to do?” said Digby. “This is 
the second afternoon I have left them. I am like a naught}^ 
boy; I have stolen out of school without leave. I must get 
back again before long, or I shall certainly receive the scold- 
ing I deserve.” 

“You won’t be scolded,” said Cecilia. “There will be no 
special cases claiming your attention. All the people you saw 
this morning in those long, dreary wards will get better and 
better as the day advances; the medicines you ordered for 
them will work miracles. The people in the wards — men, 
women, and children — will cease to cry for the doctor, for the 
doctor will already have made them well.” Then she added, 
blushing vividly, “Besides, this is my day. You have given 
it to me by coming so unexpectedly to fill my heart with pleas- 
ure. I claim the whole of this afternoon, and we must go to 
the green lane and spend it there together.” 

“We will,” said Digby. “We will forget the hospital and 
all the drudgery of life. Come, let us just imagine ourselves 
in a sort of Eden ; let us see ourselves from a new point of 
view. I am not the doctor; I am a man, with a heart which 
can be made very gay and cheerful. You are a young girl, 
with all that radiance of youth which sometimes causes one to 
step into paradise before the time.” 

“ Yes,” said Cecilia again. Her “ yes” was shy, but not self- 
conscious. Her absolute want of self-consciousness put Digby 
at ease. He yielded to her great charm, and they chatted and 
laughed like any pair of children until they reached the lane 
which Cecilia had so earnestly desired to walk in. 

“It is lovely; it is better than I thought,” she exclaimed, 
as they paced quickly betweeh brown leaves and bare branches. 
The evening was falling in — it was already dusk, but to 
Cecilia the birds were singing and the sun shining. 

“I never could have believed,” said the doctor, “that you 
were such a happy woman. This new side of your character 
fills me with amazement.” 

Cecilia paused in her quick walk and looked at him earnestly. 

“When something comes very, very seldom,” she replied, 


92 


TEE MEDICINE LADT. 


“ we value it. I do not often get a treat, so when it comes to 
me I take all the good I can out of it. When I was a very 
little girl I was never allowed to have jam except on Sundays. 
People who have jam every day can scarcely believe how de- 
licious it can taste when it is only spread on bread once a 
week.” 

“That means,” said Digby, “that the pleasure in your life 
is small, and that a walk with me can gratify you. I am 
very glad to be able to give you happiness. I take an inter- 
est in you.” 

“Do you? I think Miss Abigail Timmins also takes an in- 
terest in me, but I do not know anyone else who does.” 

“Not your aunt, Mrs. Lancaster?” 

“Oh, no — at least, I hope she doesn’t. I hate her sort of 
interest.” 

“You have a very young cousin in that house who certainly 
regards you with affection. I saw her for a moment yester- 
day. It was she who gave me your address.” 

“You mean Helena. Yes, Helena is a dear child. I forgot 
about her; I am richer than I thought.” 

“I have not given you Mrs. Murray’s message.” 

“ Oh, no ! what is it? I am very thankful that you did not 
forget to ask her what she really wanted me to do. What is 
the message? But first tell me if Mrs. Murray is still alive.” 

“No, she died two or three days ago. You need not be 
sorry for her; there are times when death really means gain.” 

“ I know that,” answered Cecilia heartily. “ It is delightful 
to think that Mrs. Murray is in heaven. Her face — her weary, 
tired face — often flashes before me when I am awake at night. 
I shall see it again, but it will be changed. I am very glad. 
Please, what is the message?” 

“The message,” said Digby, “is in itself rather sad, and I 
don’t want anything to be even tinged with mourning in this 
bright walk we are taking together. I have written down 
Mrs. Murray’s words, and the exact particulars of the things 
she wants you to do. It is contained in this envelope. Put 
it into your pocket and read it after I have gone.” 

The daylight had almost disappeared now, but the stars 
were coming out, and the full moon was riding up the sky in 
slow majesty. 

Both Cecilia and Digby forgot the lateness of the hour. 
She was still intensely happy in the present, and he was say- 
ing to himself : 


SPUING IN WINTER. 


93 


“It is quite impossible that this girl can be a comparative 
stranger to me. I feel as if I had known her for years. Has 
my sister Winifred’s spirit really entered into her? She re- 
minds me more and more of Winnie, and yet in many things 
she is totally different.” 

Digby would scarcely acknowledge, even to himself, that 
the difference in Cecilia made her no whit less sweet to him. 
After a long pause, he said abruptly : 

“I want to ask you a few questions about yourself. You are 
not going to be a nurse, you are not going to be a governess; 
you told me, when you came to see me at St. Christopher’s, 
that you were without money. What do you mean to do in 
the future?” 

“I don’t want to think of the future now,” said Cecilia, a 
faint petulance coming into her voice. 

“But I have come here to talk about the future,” said 
Digby gently. “It seems to me that I have got a great in- 
sight into your heart this afternoon. I do not believe you 
are happy. I don’t believe you could be happy in such a 
house as Mrs. Lancaster’s.” 

“No, and in any case she doesn’t wish me to live with her.” 

“ Does she intend you to stay in the cottage with that old 
lady?” 

“I am not even to stay there. Miss Timmins is a dear old 
lady. I understand her and she understands me. You can 
scarcely believe how poor she is. She has only one shilling a 
day to spend on food and clothes and firing, but she never 
grumbles, and I feel I could be fairly content to live with her 
if she could afford to keep me, but she can’t. I had a scheme 
in my head, and I confided it to Miss Timmins just before 
you came. I thought I could do that thing, for it is not really 
at all difficult, but ” 

“ Why do you stop?” said Digby. “ Tell me about this 
scheme of yours.” 

“No, Miss Timmins crushed me; she said I should make 

the very worst Oh, I am not going to tell you the name 

of the person I meant to be, but she said I should be the 
very worst she had ever heard of, so that must be given up. 
It is very odd, but all the things I most earnestly long to do 
all my friends tell me I could never do. Sometimes I feel 
driven to desperation; not, of course, now, since you have 
come to see me, and since you have spoken to me so kindly, 
and since I can trust to you to be my friend. ” 


94 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“Poor child! I will undoubtedly be your friend.” 

“ May I shake hands with you ? Shall it be a bargain ? You 
are my friend.” 

“And you are mine,” said Digby, taking one of her hands 
and crushing it between his own. 

He was silent for two or three minutes after this, and 
Cecilia walked by his side full of her own busy thoughts. It 
was delightful to her that a man like Digby could and would 
befriend her; in spite of her determination not to join his 
band of worshipers at St. Christopher’s he had always been a 
sort of hero to her, and she felt an exultancy of spirit now 
which bore her for the time far above the commonplace ills of 
life. 

“ Why don’t you speak?” she said, at last. “ Do you think 
I shall exact too much?” 

“Ho; wait a minute; I have something important to say.” 

“ What is that?” 

“First, we must be going home.” 

Cecilia gave a deep sigh. 

“Oh, what a pity!” she exclaimed. “Back again to the 
drudgery and the small things and the vexation of spirit.” 

“No,” replied Digby, with firmness, “when we set our faces 
toward home — real home — all these things vanish.” 

“Now you are talking enigmas,” she answered; “you must 
know perfectly that I have no home — no home in that sense.” 

“Nor have I,” replied Digby. “Miss Harvey,” he said, 
suddenly, “I should like to tell you something about my past 
life.” 

“Will you, really?” said Cecilia, in a delighted voice; 
“ that is much pleasanter than talking enigmas about impos- 
sible homes.” 

They had turned their steps by now, and were walking, 
although slowly, back toward Ilighgate. 

“I need not say much,” continued Digby. “In the past, 
in the long ago past when I was young, when I was a boy, I 
had a mother and a sister. My father was dead, but my 
mother filled the place of both parents to Winnie and me.” 

“ Winnie — was that your sister? What a pretty name !” 

“Yes; do you know that you are the first person to whom 
I have breathed that name for nearly twelve years? We were 
rich in those days, and I was educated at a good public school, 
and afterward went to Cambridge. My mother and sister 
came to live in Cambridge in order to be near me, and no 


SPUING IN WINTER. 


95 


people were happier than we three, hut ” Digby paused 

for nearly a minute. “My story is very commonplace,” he 
said then ; “ it was quite a commonplace tragedy that suddenly 
stripped all the green leaves off the tree of my youthful hopes 
and promises. Cambridge was not a healthy place in those 
days, and my mother and sister died within a week of each 
other. I cannot give you particulars, hut the fact that I 
lost them both within a week will suffice to show you how 
sharp was the blow which was dealt to me. All of a sudden 
I was practically relationless, for, unlike other fellows, I had 
no cousins, nor uncles, nor aunts, nor near relations of any sort. 
After my mother’s death fortune dealt me one more blow, 
although that, in comparison with the tragedy I have just 
breathed to you, was scarcely felt by me : the money which I 
had always supposed I should possess vanished like smoke, 
and I found that I must work hard to earn a living.” . 

As Digby went on with his story, his voice dropped to a 
low tone. When he spoke of the death of his mother and 
sister his words came slowly, as though wrung from him by 
pain, but when, after a pause, he went on to tell Cecilia the 
reasons which induced him to take up medicine as a profession ; 
of the wish lying deep in his heart to do something to improve 
the race, to do a little to mitigate the suffering and lighten 
the burden to which all flesh is heir, the strong hope in the 
man’s heart got into his voice and gave it a ringing tone, his 
face was animated by emotion, his eyes were full of light. 

Never had anyone a more eager listener. Step by step in 
his briefly sketched history did Cecilia follow him. lie 
touched the chords of suffering and tragedy ; he also played 
on the high, sweet notes of hope in her character. Digby, 
drawn on by her sympathy, told her finally, something of his 
love for science, and of the vision which he scarcely dared 
to expect to realize, and yet which day and night lured him on. 

“ What is that ? ” she asked, in a trembling voice. 

“I have got the germ of a discovery, which, if perfected, 
may be spoken of by and by as a benediction by vast numbers 
of suffering human beings. The first threads of a great idea 
are, I believe, already in my mind — but I forgot; I ought 
not to speak of this even to you.” 

“ I will never mention it again except to you when we are 
alone,” she said. 

“When are we to be alone again?” he asked. 

There was something in his voice which made the color 


96 


THE MEDICINE LADT. 


mount into her cheeks, but even now she failed to understand 
him. She was wondering dimly what was the matter, and 
why everything had changed within her and around her during 
the last couple of hours. 

Digby and Cecilia reached the brow of Highgate Hill, and 
began to descend swiftly into the valley. Digby ceased to 
speak now, and they walked on side by side in silence. 

Just as they got to the.topof the lane where Miss Timmins 
lived, he stopped, and, turning round, looked full at Cecilia. 
The moonlight was shining on her face — it was pale; her 
eyes looked at him, glad, sweet, and truthful. 

“Cecilia,” he said softly, “will you come home with me?” 

“Home?” she asked in astonishment, “with you?” 

“Give me your hand.” 

She held it out at once — he placed it within both his own. 
“I am lonely,” said Digby, “and so are you. Shall we 
make an ideal home together? May I — I mean this metaphor- 
ically — may I hold your hand always, as long as we live?” 

Something in his voice made her understand at last. She 
sprang away, frightened and trembling. 

“You have no right to speak to me like this,” she said. 

“Let us walk down the lane,” answered Digby. 

She went on a few paces in front of him. She scarcely 
knew whether she felt overpowered with a sense of anger or 
rejoicing. 

“What I should like best just now,” she kept saying under 
her breath, “would be to put my arms round Miss Timmins’s 
neck and kiss her. I think Miss Timmins could understand a 
little bit of what I feel. Yes?” She stopped abruptly, for 
Digby was speaking again. 

“I believe I could make you happy,” he began. “I would 
promise you ” 

“ Don’t,” she interrupted passionately. “ I suppose, as far as 
I can understand your words, that you are asking me to marry 
you.” 

“Yes, that is what I want.” 

“You are the best man I ever met,” continued Cecilia. 
“You are chivalrous, you are kind, you are true. I know 
what I am: I am all impulse, I can do no one thing well. No 
one has more absolutely shown me myself than you have done ; 
but, poor as I am in every sense of the word, I will % not be- 
come the wife of a man who asks me to marry him because 
he is sorry for me.” 


SPRING IN WINTER . 


97 


u Before God you do me an injustice !” retorted Digby ; “ I 
am not generous enough for that.” 

“Then you ” She stopped; her face was whiter than 

ever. 

“I will confess everything to you,” said Digby; “you shall 
see my inmost thoughts laid bare. I will tell you the simple 
truth. Come, we cannot go in just yet. Walk back with 
me up the lane. Give me your hand, it trembles; lean on 
me, you don’t mind, do you?” 

“I won’t lean on you, nor take your hand, until you have 
told me your story,” answered Cecilia; “and you can tell it 
here by Miss Timmins’s gate.” 

“Very well. This time two nights ago I had given no 
thought to any future wife. I remembered you, and you in- 
terested me. You had always interested me from the first 
time I saw you at St. Christopher’s, but a wife — I did not 
think there was any room for a wife in my preoccupied exist- 
ence. 

“Two evenings ago something occurred which flashed the 
idea of asking you to become my wife into my brain. I won’t 
tell you what really happened, for it does not in the least con- 
cern the issue of this conversation. I will tell you the simple, 
frank truth, however. The idea, presented to me abruptly, 
was not at first a welcome one.” 

“No, I quite understand,” replied Cecilia, in a faint voice. 
“ Oh, you are a good man, but I am strong enough not to 
wish deliberately to ruin your life. I will go in now to Miss 
Timmins; I have been out too late.” 

“You must not stir till you hear me to the end. The idea of 
asking you to be my wife would not leave me : it stayed with 
me all night, it followed me over the wards in the morning, it 
accompanied me as I talked to the out-patients. It became 
wonderfully irritating, and I found, as the day progressed, that 
it was overmastering every sense of work and duty, and that 
there was likely to be no rest for me till I came to a final de- 
cision whether to ask you this one momentous question or not. 
To come to this decision I felt that I must absolutely see you. 
I made arrangements for my afternoon duty, and went off to 
Harford Square with the ostensible purpose of givingyou poor 
Mrs. Murray’s dying message. I saw your aunt, who prac- 
tically refused to supply me with your present address; but 
fortunately your cousin, who overheard our conversation, was 
good-natured enough to give me what I wanted. It was too 


98 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


late to visit you yesterday. I came to Highgate this after- 
noon, and we have taken a walk together. During that walk a 
marvelous thing happened — something which I cannot account 
for, but which I know my own nature too well to doubt. I 
found that when I looked at you, Cecilia, and you looked back 
at me, my hungry heart was rested as it has never been since the 
day when my mother and my sister Winnie were taken from 
me. When you spoke your voice filled me with joy. A bur- 
den of care seemed rolled away from me. I felt young again. 
All talk of my marrying you out of pity can never again be 
spoken of between us, Cecilia; for, if I am ever lucky enough 
to call you my wife, it will be because I love you and cannot 
live without you. Is there any possibility of your caring for 
me? That is the question which alone has now to be con- 
sidered.” 

Cecilia made no reply, but she leant against the little wicket 
gate until it creaked, and Miss Timmins, attracted by the 
sound, came to one of her lattice windows and peeped out. 

She instantly and discreetly withdrew ; not that it mattered 
much, for neither Digby nor Cecilia had room for her in their 
world at that moment. 

“Is there any hope for me?” repeated Digby. 

He came very close, and his hand also rested on Miss Tim- 
mins’s little wicket gate. 

“Think,” he repeated, “of the home — quite humble and 
poor, but glorified by love, and made beautiful by the sym- 
pathy which two souls can each give to the other. Think ” 

“Do I want to think?” answered Cecilia. 

He misunderstood her words and interrupted, his voice 
slightly raised in excitement. 

“ I defy you to say to my face that you have no sympathy for 
me. I have seen sympathy shining out of your eyes when 
ever you looked at me during the last two hours.” 

Cecilia frantically unbuttoned her glove and pulled it off. 

“Here is my hand,” she said. “You can keep it; it is 
yours. And my life is yours, and my — my great, my deep 
love. O God, how gracious and beautiful you are to give me 
a gift like this !” 


JBcofe ii. — trbe Ifoouse of Ifoumbugs, 


CHAPTER I. 

FORTY-EIGHT HARTRICK STREET. 

A young girl with bright eyes and round and pretty face 
was standing before her looking-glass, putting the last touches 
to her graceful dinner dress. The time was summer, and 
the year 1874. The girl’s room was high up in the big 
house, and the rays of the western sun were streaming in 
through the open window on her slim young figure, as she 
stood arranging her soft white draperies before her glass. 

The girl was Helena Lancaster. She had left her hoidenisli 
and awkward ways behind her, and had blossomed into a 
bright, graceful creature in the perfection of her girlish bloom. 

There came a knock at her door; she answered it somewhat 
impatiently. 

“ Yes, yes ; who is there? I am not quite ready to go down- 
stairs yet.” 

“May I come in?” asked Millie Lancaster’s voice at the 
other side of the closed door. “ I want to speak to you for a 
moment, Helena.” 

Helena ran across the room, drew back the bolt of her door, 
and opened it. 

“Come in, Millie,” she said. “I did not know it was you 
— perhaps you can help me. I am not quite satisfied with the 
arrangement of these flowers in my hair. Do try if you can 
pin them in more gracefully.” 

Helena’s voice was sweet, high, rather quick in utterance, 
very happy in tone. 

Millie Lancaster, also in white, came into the room and 
shut the door behind her. She was still a young girl, not more 
than three and twenty, but the faint promise of beauty that 
she possessed at eighteen had not increased with her years. 
She was short, her complexion was pale, her eyes wanted 
brightness. 

99 


100 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“If only tlie Digbys would come,” said Helena. u Cecilia 
is just the person I want to put these flowers right. I think 
Cecilia is an artist through and through. Did you ever see her 
arranging flowers in vases, Millie? She puts a leaf in and then 
a couple of flowers, and hey-presto! the little bouquet is per- 
fect. James says that Cecilia is an artist by nature.” 

“ Of course, what James says must be right,” retorted Millie 
in a pettish voice. “We are all rather tired of hearing his 
opinions quoted each moment. You must admit, Helena, that 
you rather overdo that sort of thing; you ought to try and 
remember that we are not all engaged to your James.” 

“I should hope not!” replied Helena pertly. “I will try 
not to speak of him again, Millie, but I hope you will not 
prevent my speaking to him, as he is dining here to-night.” 

Millie looked cross and turned away. 

At this moment the sound of wheels was heard, and a cab 
drew up at the front door. Helena rushed to her window and 
peeped out. 

“Oh,” she said, “here they are at last! Now, if I could 
smuggle Cecilia up here for a moment.” 

“ How can you be so unreasonable, Helena. It is almost the 
dinner hour now. You know how- vexed mamma is when we 
are not waiting in the drawing room to receive our guests. 
Several of them have already arrived — we ought both to have 
been in the drawing room ten minutes ago. Come, you silly 
creature! You look pretty enough even to please your pre- 
cious James. Come, come, let us go downstairs.” 

“1 wonder,” said Helena, as the two sisters ran down the 
broad stairs side by side, “if Cecilia felt as I do now when 
she was first engaged to Laurence Digby?” 

“Scarcely likely,” answered Millie with some scorn; 
“ Cecilia was going to marry a man without money and without 
position, whereas you — well, Helena, we all know what the 
world thinks of, and, better still, what the world is going to 
think of, Dr. Phillips. He is both clever and rich.” 

“I know that,” answered Helena. “People always talk to 
me about his cleverness and about his riches. They seem to 
think I am going to marry him because of these two things. 

No one, no one gives me credit ” she stopped, and added 

wistfully, speaking more to herself than to her sister: 

“If I were quite sure of being as happy as Cecilia is I 
should be more than thankful.” 

“You are a very, very silly girl,” replied Millie, giving her 


FORTY-EIGHT HARTRICK STREET. 


101 


sister a half contemptuous glance. “ If only your chances were 
mine,” she murmured under her breath. 

When Millie and Helena entered the drawing room several 
of the guests had already arrived. Mrs. Lancaster was stand- 
ing near the door receiving them as they came in. George 
was also present, but Chatty’s face was missing. More than 
two years ago Chatty had married, and had gone away from 
the home circle. 

Millie went up at once to her mother’s side and began to 
perform her part in receiving and talking to the different 
visitors, but Helena made her way swiftly across the inner 
drawing room to where a girlish figure, in a very simple dress, 
was standing. 

“Here I am, Cecilia,” she exclaimed. 

Cecilia bent her head, she was a little taller than her cousin, 
and kissed her gravely. 

“Where is Dr. Digby?” whispered Helena. 

“Here, just behind the curtain, talking to Mr. Dickson. 
Laurence, come and speak to Helena, she wants you to wish 
her joy.” 

Digby came forward at once. 

“ I wish you the best happiness,” he said. He took Helena’s 
hand and shook it heartily. “ I hope you will be very happy, 
as happy ” 

“As we are,” interrupted Cecilia. “Helena,” she con- 
tinued, putting her hand on her young cousin’s shoulder, and 
speaking with her old impulse, “ I want you with all my heart 
to be happy, but I do not believe it is possible that you can 
have quite such a beautiful life as Laurence and I have.” 

Helena’s eyes looked gravely back at Cecilia. A wistful 
expression crept into them; she was about to reply when 
Digby addressed her. 

“ I have not seen Phillips since I heard of your engagement, 
Helena. Is he coming here to-night?” 

“Yes, of course; I think he has just arrived. See, he is 
coming into the room now.” 

The door of the drawing room was thrown open, and 
Phillips, tall, erect, and strikingly handsome entered. 

He always made an effect when he came into a room. He 
was accustomed to the little hush that followed the announce- 
ment of his name. The battery of eyes which assailed him 
gave him satisfaction, for he read, or thought he read, ad- 
miration in each glance. 


102 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Phillips was in every sense a man of the world. Already 
he was a popular doctor, and bade fair to have a large practice 
in a few years’ time. He and Digby met each other cordially. 
If any feud still existed between the two men it had long ago 
been buried out of sight. Digby was a marked contrast to 
Phillips; he looked more rugged than he had done three 
years ago, but his eyes still gleamed out of his face with 
their old kindly spirit, his smile was more frequent and, 
if possible, sweeter than in the bygone days, but in the 
matter of dress he was as careless and as unobservant as 
ever. 

After speaking to Helena and Cecilia, Phillips came up and 
joined Digby. They talked in low voices together, and a 
moment afterward dinner was announced, and the many 
visitors, for the party was a large one, strolled down in pairs 
to the dining room. 

Cecilia found herself sitting near her cousin George. Years 
had improved George Lancaster. He was now a good looking, 
gentlemanly man. He was doing well in his city life, was 
an excellent son and brother, and still kepta warm corner in his 
heart for his pretty cousin Cecilia. 

Whatever doubts there had been in the past with regard to 
the beauty of Dr. Digby’s young wife they had resolved 
themselves long since into certainties. Cecilia had that rare 
type of beauty which arrests attention more than any other. 
She possessed one of those queer, bewitching, expressive faces, 
that change with each passing emotion and are the most tan- 
talizing and the most attractive in the world. 

Cecilia’s dress was nearly as plain as it was on that cele- 
brated day when she had come down to dinner in her dark 
blue serge and pearl ornaments, but it was now perfect in 
taste and of a delicate shade of color which set off her fair 
complexion and bright hair to the best advantage. 

When a face is all shining and beaming with happiness, 
even if the features are plain, people, unless they happen to 
be very bad, like to look at it. In Cecilia’s case the features 
were the reverse of plain, and the happiness was so marked 
round the sweet mouth and shone so radiantly out of the ex- 
pressive eyes that more than one person remarked it. 

“It is a pleasure to even watch Mrs. Digby,” one of the 
ladies present said to her neighbor. “ What has the world 
done to her that she should seem so full of sunshine?” 

George spoke in low tones to his cousin. 


FORTY-EIGHT IIARTRIGK STREET. 


103 


“Are you glad about Helena?” he asked. 

“Yes, I think I am glad.” 

“The mater is in ecstasies.” 

“Oh, that is a matter of course.” 

Cecilia glanced down the long table at her aunt, and then 
turned to her cousin with a smile. 

“Phillips is very rich,” pursued George, “so of course the 
mater has been wanting the match for some time. Doubtless 
it is a very fine thing for little Helena, but I hope Phillips 
will make her happy.” 

“Laurence says that Mr. Phillips has greatly improved,” re- 
marked Cecilia in a grave voice. 

“Between ourselves he needed improvement, Cecilia. 
What a cad he made of himself the day you snubbed him at 
our dinner party. Ha, ha ! I like to recall his face when you 
stood up before everyone and told him he was not speaking 
the truth.” 

Cecilia laughed, and then she added earnestly: 

“You must forget that day now, George. We must think 
everything that is good of Mr. Phillips for little Helena’s 
sake.” 

“They talk of him in the profession as clever,” pursued 
George. “I heard him spoken of in tones of the highest 
praise the other day. You know, of course, that he was called 
in to see Sir Aubin Worth; he is sure to make a great handle 
of that. Oh, there is little doubt that he is likely to rise to 
a high place in the medical world.” 

Cecilia Digby gave the faintest little possible ghost of a sigh. 
No one who did not care for her as much as George did 
would have noticed it, but he glanced up from his plate and 
gave her a quick look. 

“I know what you are thinking about,” he said. 

“What?” she asked in some alarm. 

“You are wishing, 1 know you are wishing, that your 
Laurence had the same chances that Helena’s James has.* 
Cecilia, I will whisper something to you. Digby is worth a 
thousand of Phillips — he is worth ten thousand of him. 
Digby is Phillips’s superior in character, in mind, in every- 
thing.” 

“Thank you, George,” said Cecilia. The ready tears 
dimmed her bright eyes for a minute. “Let us change the 
subject,” she said. “You have never asked me about 
Babs.” 


104 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“ As if I could forget her, the monkey ! Has she been be- 
having herself as atrociously as usual?” 

“Yes — even more so. She took her mug of milk this 
morning and threw it across the nursery, then she laughed and 
called herself ‘dood Babs.’ ” 

“Ah! I said I had accepted an enormous responsibility 
when I consented to be that child’s godfather. Cecilia, do 
j you know that Phillips has taken a house in Hartrick Street?” 
\ “ Has he ? ” responded Cecilia in a listless voice. 

* “Yes; it is to be splendidly furnished. He is in great luck 
to secure one of those houses ; there is no better position for 
a rising doctor than Hartrick Street. He has taken No. 47, 
and I was told to-day that No. 48 was going a bargain.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Cecilia. The quick color flashed into her 
face. 

“I wish Digby would take No. 48,” pursued George. 

“How could he, George? We are very poor, you know.” 

“It is a queer coincidence,” said George; “but ever since 
you married*Digby, Cecil, I am always running up against 
your husband’s profession in one form or another. A day 
or two ago I met a very nice man at my club, called Everard. 
He happened to know your husband — w*as with him at St. 
Christopher’s some years ago; he began groaning and lament- 
ing over the way in which Digby throws himself away. He 
said that Digby never could do anything until he took a good 
house in a good position ; then he quoted a man to me who is 
now making an enormous income, and yet when he married 
he had scarcely enough money to meet the yearly rent of 'his 
house. The man in question took a house in this very Hart- 
rick Street. He was clever, and was at once thrown into a 
fashionable circle, who always recognize real merit. Had he 
kept in the slums, as Digby has done, do you think he 
would be a rich man now?” 

“George,” said Cecilia, her eyes flashing, “you are a 
tempter. You find out my weak spot; you assail me just 
where I have no courage to resist. Isn’t it wicked of you to 
take the form of the tempter and enter our little Eden?” 

“Forgive me,” said George. 

“ Could there be a happier home than the little house you 
speak of as in the slums?” pursued Cecilia. 

“No, no; I grant it. But I think you and Digby would 
have a happy home anywhere, be it slum or palace. Y our hap- 
piness lies quite apart from your house.” 


FORTY-EIGHT HARTRICK STEEET. 


105 


“Yes, I know it, and yet you tempt me frightfully. I hate 
to see Laurence overlooked. Not that he cares. Watch him 
now ; who looks the most contented — my own Laurence or Mr. 
Phillips?” 

“ Oh, don’t compare them,” said George. “ There is nothing 
on earth I wouldn’t do for your husband, Cecil; whereas 
Phillips! To tell you the truth, I Lave never ceased re- 

gretting that dear, good natured little Helena is to be thrown 
away on him.” 

Cecilia’s face became anxious. She looked from her hus- 
band to Phillips, then at Helena, then her eyes wandered 
back to Digby again. He intercepted her glance, and gave 
her a quick nod and smile. She flushed, and resumed her con- 
versation with her cousin. It drifted into the channel where 
Cecilia’s happiest thoughts now dwelt. There was an earnest 
talk between the cousins about a certain young person who 
had not yet attained the dignity of two years. Her ways, 
her doings, her most remarkable sayings, were all re- 
corded by the young mother for the benefit of the very en- 
thusiastic and most kind hearted godfather, who, in a spirit 
of mischief, promised rewards for bad behavior and punish- 
ment for good. 

“I know you will bring up that infant all wrong,” said 
George. “I must make it my duty to come over and see her 
every Sunday. I will not allow her to be perverted into the 
narrow channels where the good little girls always walk. Babs 
shall not be a good little girl. What do you think of this 
rhyme, which I have specially adapted for her benefit? 

“Don’t come when you’re called 
Don’t do what you’re bid. 

Slam the door after you, 

Bad little kid.” 

Cecilia pretended to be shocked, but once more her merry 
laughter attracted the attention and the envy of graver people. 

In the course of the evening Helena came over and sat by 
Cecilia’s side. 

“You have heard about the house that James has taken?” 
she asked. 

“Yes, Helena.” 

“He is very much pleased about it,” continued Helena, 
with a soft little half sorrowful sigh. 

Cecilia slipped her arm round her cousin’s waist. 

“Aren’t you glad yourself, Helena? ” she whispered. 


106 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“ I don’t know. All this success and prosperity frighten 
me. Mamma is so pleased, and all the people who see me 
say that I am a lucky girl. They think of the wealth, all of 
them, and of the good place Dr. Phillips’s wife can take in 
society ; and it is impossible for anyone to guess that I am 
not marrying James for any of these things.” 

“ Well, Helena, I understand,” said Cecilia. “ Your heart is 
full of love, just as mine was when I was engaged, just as mine 
has kept ever since. You have no room in your heart for the 
worldly, ambitious aspect of the question. But it is nice, 
little Helena, to have got the two — the love andihe fame. It 
is very nice, is it not?” 

“I suppose it is,” replied Helena; “but if I might just con- 
sult my own tastes, I would much rather go to live at 27 
Coxmoor Street — the house next to yours.” 

“My dear Helena, that tumble-down, dirty, dowdy place!” 

“ It would suit me better than Hartrick Street. I have lived 
in a big house all my life, and I hate big houses. I want 
small, cozy rooms like yours, and low stairs, and not many of 
them.” 

While her cousin was speaking, Cecilia raised her eyes and 
noticed that Phillips and two or three other men had entered 
the drawing room. His eyes searched for Helena at once, 
and seeing with whom she was speaking, a queer expression 
— half of malice, half of triumph — flashed over his face. He 
strode across the room, and came up to the corner where 
Cecilia and Helena were talking. 

“May I join the group?” he asked. “Is there room for me 
on the sofa?” 

Helena moved a little closer to Cecilia, and Phillips, seating 
himself, immediately took the management of the conver- 
sation. He told Cecilia of his good fortune in having secured 
No. 47 Hartrick Street. 

“I have been talking the matter over with your husband,” 
he said, addressing Sirs. Digby, “and urging him most 
strongly to secure No. 48, which happens to be vacant, and 
will be sold or let at a slightly reduced rent in consequence of 
poor Eden Browne having died there. You knew Eden 
Browne, of course, at least by name, Mrs. Digby? He went 
mad over some germ theory which never came to anything.” 

“ My husband says ” began Cecilia. 

Phillips interrupted her with a laugh. 

“Forgive me,” he said, “there are some men in the profes- 


FORTY-EIGHT HARTRIGK STREET. 


107 


sion who are well aware of the fact that Digby is tarred with 
the same brush as poor Eden Browne. What so appropriate, 
then, as your both coming to live in his house?” 

“You have really spoken to Laurence of this?” asked 
Cecilia. 

“Yes, but bless the man, lie’s as quixotic and unworldly 
as ever. He hinted broadly to iny face that a contented mind 
was a continual feast, and darkly alluded to riches and misery, 
to ambition and a fall. You must rouse him, Mrs. Digby — 
it’s your duty; there isn’t a cleverer man in the profession.” 

“You admit that now?” said Cecilia. Her eyes flashed 
with the angry light which had filled them three and a half 
years ago, when Phillips had mentioned Digby’s name for the 
purpose of slighting it. The fire in her eyes was now met by 
defiance in his, but his answer was sweet and rather languid 
in tone. 

“ I think what I always thought, ”he said. “ Come, Helena, 
the piano is vacant; you must sing my favorite song: 

* My heart is like a singing bird.’ 

The words have been echoing in my head all day.” 

Helena Lancaster rose at once and went to the piano. Her 
voice was very full and beautiful. It was her great gift. 
When she used it she rose above the commonplace. She ran 
her slim fingers over the keys of the piano, and her words, 
with a queer undertone of pathos running through all their 
gladness, filled the room. 

“ My heart is like a singing bird 

Whose nest is in a watered shoot ; 

My heart is like an apple tree 
Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit ; 

My heart is like a rainbow shell 
That paddles in a halcyon sea ; 

My heart is gladder than all these, 

Because my love is come to me. 

“ Raise me a dais of silk and down, 

Hang it with vair and purple dyes; 

Carve it with doves and pomegranates, 

And peacocks with a hundred eyes ; 

Work it in gold and silver grapes, 

In leaves and silver fleur-de-lys: 

Because the birthday of my life 
Is come, my love is come to me. ” 

The babel of talk ceased. Many people turned to watch 


108 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


the beautiful singer. When Helena left the piano, Phillips 
gave her an earnest look, which thrilled through her heart, 
and Digby came up and took her hand. 

“Thank you,” he said. “Yours is the kind of voice to 
banish headache and heartache. I congratulate you, Phillips, 
on having won such a treasure. You will find it of use 
many a day.” 

“But the singer looks tired,” said Cecilia, who had also 
joined the group. “Perhaps she has a headache herself.” 

“No,” replied Helen, “I have no headache, but perhaps my 
face expresses some of the anxiety I feel. I do dreadfully 
want to ask Dr. Digby something.” 

“What is that, my dear?” he inquired, in his kindest way. 

“ It is this : as I cannot come to live near Cecilia in Coxmoor 
Street, I want her to come to 48 Hartrick Street.” 

Helena blushed, and raised pleading eyes to Digby’s face 
as she spoke. 

He laughed. 

“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed. “What next? You rich 
folk seem to be in a conspiracy to tempt a humble-minded 
man to his destruction. Lancaster, come here. Lancaster, 
have the goodness to listen to what these good people say. 
First of all Phillips and now Helena want me to plunge into 
debt, and take a house six times too large for me and twenty 
times too expensive. I should treat it as a joke, but that they 
both manage to look grave w 7 hen they make the proposition. 
Cecilia, will you give them a piece of your mind? You know 
better how to crush this sort of serpent in the grass than I do. 
Now then, good folks, listen to my wife.” 

Digby stretched out his hand and drew Cecilia forward as 
he spoke. The light fell full on her soft, silvery gray dress, 
on her shining golden head, and her beautiful, pale, expressive 
face. 

“Stop a minute,” said Lancaster; “before you listen to 
Cecilia, hear me. I believe — on my honor, I emphatically 
believe — that you could not do a wiser thing, Digby, than to 
see the agent who has the letting of 48 Hartrick Street early 
to-morrow morning and close with him before the day is out. 
No fear of your clashing with Phillips, for you are in differ- 
ent lines. My advice is, don’t lose the chance, Digby, for 
I am convinced that you can rise to anything if only you have 
fair play.” 

Lancaster turned on his heel as he said the last words. His 


HEREDITY. 


100 


mother was calling him to attend to a neglected guest, but 
Phillips still stood near Helena, and Cecilia, with the light 
shining full on her, was facing her husband. 

“Now, Cecilia, crush the whole thing,” he said, giving her 
one of his sweet yet strong glances. 

But Cecilia was not looking at her husband. She had 
caught a fresh gleam of the ill concealed triumph on Phillips’s 
face. Her answer, when it came at last, was in reply to that. 

“I agree with my cousin George,” she said. “I should like 
of all things to go and live in Hartrick Street.” 

CHAPTER II. 

HEREDITY. 

Digby and his wife drove home together in silence. This 
was not their usual custom. When Cecilia was alone with her 
husband she generally had much to say, she was wont to pour 
into his ears the glad happy nothings which came to her lips, 
to express each thought as it bubbled up from her heart, to tell 
him all that Babs had said, all the miraculous performances 
that Babs had made, and often to stop her eager speech and 
put her arms round his neck, and lay her head on his shoulder, 
or kiss his brow, more wrinkled now than of old. 

But to-night Cecilia was silent — she sat in her own corner 
of the cab, her white shawl wrapped tightly round her, her 
face in shadow. Digby did not ask her what her thoughts 
were. With his natural energy there was also a great power 
of waiting about him, and he felt assured that when Cecilia 
was ready to explain the very startling admission she had 
made at the Lancasters’ would be the best and only time to 
listen to her. 

The Digbys’ house was far away from any fashionable 
quarter — they drove past Bloomsbury into those dreary 
regions which surround Gray’s Inn Fields; they entered a 
narrow and dull street in this quarter. The cab stopped at 
last before a small house in front of which hung the red lamp 
which generally characterizes a doctor’s residence. 

The rays from the lamp shed some bars of color on the pave- 
ment — rain was falling from the summer sky. It was a dark 
night, neither moon nor stars visible. 

Digby got out first and paid the cabman his fare, then he 
held out his hand to help his wife to alight. She raised her 


110 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


eyes as she did so to a certain window. There should he a dim 
light in this window, the softened and pleasant light which 
speaks to a mother of a sheltered and safe nursery where little 
lives are folded away like flowers in peaceful sleep. 

The moment she looked up now she uttered a cry. 

“Laurence,” she said, “they have turned the gas full on in 
baby’s nursery ; she must be awake — I do hope she is not ill !” 

Digby smiled. 

“You are overanxious, my dear,” he said; “we are at home 
now, we can soon ascertain if anything is wrong.” 

Digby opened the hall door with his latchkey, and the two 
went into the narrow passage. 

Their one general servant had gone to bed, but the nurse, a 
young woman of twenty, hearing sounds in the hall, came 
quickly downstairs, and began to speak in a hurried and 
agitated voice. 

“ I am so glad you have come r back !” she said, addressing 
Digby; “I don’t like the way baby is going on a bit.” 

“There now, I knew the child was ill!” said Cecilia. She 
flung her shawl off, threw it on the hall table, and rushed up- 
stairs, her footsteps light and fleet, her face blanched, her 
heart beating with fast and terrified fear. 

The glare from the gas made the nursery feel hot and stifling 
— its full power lay across the bed where the baby of eighteen 
months lay slumbering. 

Cecilia walked straight across the room, lowered the gas, 
then going up to the bed bent over it. The baby’s breathing 
was rapid, she tossed her arms in her sleep, and heavy moans 
came from her parted lips. 

Cecilia laid her hand on the little forehead, it was hot and 
dry. She went back again to the head of the stairs. 

“Laurence,” she said, in a breathless way, “come up to baby 
at once.” 

“I am coming,” he replied. He entered the nursery the 
next moment, followed by the nurse. 

“What did you notice wrong, Nurse?” he asked, as he 
bent over the child. “Cecilia, dear, I must have a lighted 
candle, please. No, the light won’t hurt baby, don’t be 
frightened. What have you noticed wrong with the child, 
Nurse?” 

“She has been very hot and restless, sir, waking up several 
times with piercing shrieks and putting her hand constantly 
to her head. I thought her very fretful all day, and her eyes — * 


HEREDITY. 


Ill 


they looked queer; it seemed to me as if she squinted. It 
took me all of a heap when I saw that, for it was the way 
mother’s little Mary Jane was took.” 

“Why did you not tell us this before we went out?” asked 
Digby sternly. 

“It was not until she was took so bad in her sleep that it 
came to my mind, sir; then I remembered it and wondered if 
her eyes was going to change. They do sometimes when the 
wind alters, I am told. Well, I’m glad you are home, ma’am, 
and you, sir, for if the blessed child has got something ” 

“Hush,” said Digby, “you need not say any more. Now, 
stand aside, please.” 

The girl, subdued by the doctor’s firm tone, stepped into 
the shadow, and the father and mother bent over the little bed. 

The baby was a beautiful child, firm of limbs and round 
of face. Heavy lashes shaded her eyes, and her golden brown 
hair lay in lovely tendrils on her little forehead. Now, 
crimson spots burned on her cheeks and the expression of the 
small face was full of suffering. 

After feeling the child’s brow "and wrist, Digby bent for- 
ward and, lifting the heavy eyelids, looked at the eyes. 

“You will wake her!” said Cecilia in a stifled tone of 
agony. “ Why do you disturb her? It must be good for her 
to sleep.” 

“I won’t hurt her, dear,” he replied tenderly. “Is it likely 
that I should injure her? I must ascertain the exact state of 
the case.” He put his finger into the baby’s mouth as he 
spoke and felt the ridges of her swollen gums. 

“ The present condition of the child may be due to her teeth,” 
he said. “If so, I can relieve it, but I don’t quite like the 
look of her eyes. I want to say a word to you, Cecilia; will 
you come into the other room with me for a moment?” 

“Oh, don’t mind talking to me now!” she exclaimed irri- 
tably : “ relieve baby, save baby ! What can you have to say 
to me just now?” 

“It is necessary for me to ask you a question. Come, I 
won’t keep you from baby more than a minute or two.” 

Digby led his wife on to the landing; the door of their own 
bedroom stood open ; he drew her inside, and, putting his hand 
on her shoulder, looked into her face. 

“Cecilia,” he said, “our child is very ill, but I have every 
hope, every confidence, that I may save her life. In cases of 
this kind, however, a doctor ought to be armed with all pos- 


112 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


sible knowledge. I want to ask you a question. You may 
think it a strange one, but it is necessary that I should know 
the truth.” 

“Ask me anything you like,” replied Cecilia, wringing 
her hands in misery, “only let me go back quickly to 
baby.” 

“ You shall go back as soon as you have changed your dress, 
rested your mind a little, and answered my question.” 

“Oh, yes, yes! Ask your question, Laurence. Why do 
you torture me with this delay? How can you speak of* my 
resting my mind when baby is so ill?” 

“My dear,” said Digby in his tenderest t'one, “do you sup- 
pose that I do not feel for you? I suffer with you, my love. 
But now for my question. The state of baby’s eyes indicates 
certain symptoms. Cecilia, forgive me for an abrupt remark. 
Both your parents died young — of what did they die?” 

Cecilia looked at her husband in amazement. 

“Answer me,” he said, almost impatiently. “Of what did 
your parents die?” 

“My father was killed by a fall while in India.” 

“Ah!” The doctor’s brow cleared. “And your mother?” 
he added more anxiously. 

“My mother was ill fora long time — a year Or so. I think 
she must have had consumption, for she coughed a good 
deal.” 

“Yes, yes. Just so. That is what I feared.” 

“ O Laurence, what do you fear?” Cecilia sprang to his 
side and caught his arm with her two hands. “What do you 
fear?” she repeated. “ Is our baby going to die?” 

“I trust not, but baby is very ill. I will conceal nothing 
from you, Cecilia. Baby may be now suffering from a form 
of brain disease for which there is no cure; or again, the 
whole attack may be due to teething. If the latter, she will 
live. If the former ” 

“Don’t,” said Cecilia. “Don’t say the words; I won’t 
listen.” 

“My love, this is my trouble as well as yours. God may 
be merciful. Try and get a little calm. If the baby’s brain 
is affected, nothing I can do will alter the course of that 
disease, which must end in death; but if, on the other hand, 
the present derangement of her system is due to teeth, I may, 
and probably shall, be able to save her life. In the latter case 
a great deal depends on you. You must be very quiet, and 


HEREDITY. 


113 


very collected, and have all your wits about you, if you wish 
to save baby’s life. Now I am going back to her. Follow 
me when you feel able to forget yourself.” 

“Oh, you have good cause not to trust me!” said Cecilia. 
The doctor left the room, and the unhappy young wife flung 
herself on her knees by the side of the bed. 

It is one thing to fling yourself by your bedside and try to 
calm an anguished and torn heart by words of prayer. It is 
another thing for the prayer to rise to Heaven and the answer 
to come down. There are souls filled with such strong faith 
that such results may be achieved, but Cecilia’s was not one 
of these. 

She soon sprang to her feet, and began frantically to un- 
fasten her pretty dinner dress. Her fingers trembled with 
the speed she used. Her hot haste made her awkward . But- 
tons would twist themselves in the buttonholes instead of 
getting free; hooks would keep in their eyelet holes with a 
pertinacity which defied all efforts to release them. Cecilia 
had at last to use grim force. She was free of the body of her 
dress, of her skirt. She ran to her wardrobe to take down a 
long, white dressing-gown. It was hung at the back of the 
deep recess; other garments covered it on the same hook. 
She wrestled fiercely, and made dire havoc in the w r ardrobe, 
but at last she was successful. She was ready now to go into 
the nursery and take charge of her baby. 

She walked to the door, and tried to open it. 

It w T as just then that a queer thing happened. Cecilia be- 
came possessed of a terrible nervous tremor. She was abso- 
lutely certain that if she went into the nursery, and saw despair 
written on her husband’s face, she should faint. She was as 
sure of this as, three years and a half ago, she had been certain 
of becoming unconscious, helpless, worthless, by Tommy Con- 
stantine’s bedside. 

“I cannot control myself,” she said aloud. “Good God! 
what kind of creature has Laurence married ! My little child’s 
life hangs in the balance, and I cannot see her — I cannot be 
with her because I am destitute of self control. Oh, I thought 
I had overcome this feeling forever! Did I not vow that I 
would never give way again after Tommy so nearly died? 
Am I to think nothing of the training I have had for the last 
three years and a half — the daily influence of a man like my 
husband? Am I to think nothing of the strength that must 
have come to me through watching his life, through sharing 


114 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


his sentiments, through learning to see the great, suffering 
world through his eyes? 

“There, there! I’ll just walk up to the wardrobe and back 
again. I’ll banish the feeling which tells me I shall faint, 
which whispers to me that I shall fail. I hear Laurence’s 
step in the nursery. He is doing something for baby — little 
Babs — my darling, my beauty, my sweetheart! Perhaps she 
is awake now, and looking round for her mother. How 
queer it was of Laurence to pull her eyes open, and then to 
ask me that question about my parents. Does he blame me 
because baby is ill? Ought I never to have married? Oh! 
this new doctrine of heredity is enough to drive any woman 
mad! 

“How often have I walked to the wardrobe and back? A 
dozen times, I think. Well, I’m calm enough now. I’ll feel 
my own hand. It’s quite cold; that’s right. I’m not a bit 
feverish: I’m sure I was feverish the night Tommy Con- 
stantine was so ill. My heart does thump, of course; but 
that’s only natural. A mother’s first child — dying at such 
short notice — quite well when we went out to dinner — now 
dying! Such a sweet child, too; even strangers said that. 
Such eyes and such dear little ways, so saucy, such a daring 
little monkey — no, no ; not a monkey — a little lovely spirit 
soul! I see her when she looks up, when she smiles. There is 
God in her face. They say babies are very near God, very 
close to heaven. Poor George Lancaster! he will be sorry 
when he hears. 

“How I’m all right — I never felt calmer in my life; it’s 
wonderful, but I really don’t feel it. Let me say it over to 
myself not to be taken by surprise. Baby has something 
wrong with her brain and she can’t recover, and it is be- 
cause my mother died of consumption. No, no, I am sure 
Laurence said something else, but I can’t recall the words. 
It’s most queer of me. Well, at any rate, I’m all right now, 
and I’m going into the room. He said that I must be very 
calm and quiet, he’ll see that I am. I know exactly what I’ll 
do. I’ll sit in the rocking-chair and I’ll ask him to put baby 
into my arms ; she always did love to cuddle up close to me ! 
Oh, my little sweet, you shall get close to my heart again — 
close, very close ! 

“What is that? What is that noise? Somebody walking 
fast; it’s Laurence; he’s wondering that I’m not coming. 
Unnatural mother, cold-hearted wife ! There, I’ll call to him. 


BRAINS OR MONEY. 


115 


Coming, Laurence! Coming! My voice won’t sound — 
it won’t get beyond my lips. Well, I’ll turn the handle 
of the door — it won’t move, my hands feel dead. What 
is the matter with me? I will break this spell; it must 
have been hours since Laurence went away. Perhaps baby 
is dead! After all, I don’t hear a sound in the room, it’s as 
still as a — as a grave. I’m going in at last, however. What- 
ever has happened, I am prepared now. O Laurence! O 
Laurence, Laurence!” 

“My darling! What is it? Cecilia, how strange you 
look.” 

Digby had opened the bedroom door suddenly. He put 
his arms around his wife and drew her to his side. 

“You can help us now nicely,” he said in his calm reassur- 
ing voice. 

“Is baby dead, Laurence?” 

“No, no; far from dead. I have lanced her gums and she 
is much better.” 

“Then it was not her brain? It was not my mother’s 
fault?” 

“No, thank God,” said Digby. “What I dreaded half an 
hour ago was not the case, it was but a teething trouble. 
Baby will live. Come and sit by her now. She is in a 
natural sleep.” 

“And I did not faint,” said Cecilia to herself, as she fol- 
lowed her husband into the nursery. “Laurence’s influence 
has done something for me. I did not faint, but I felt very 
queer.” 


CHAPTER III. 

BRAINS OR MONEY. 

“I do not think,” said Mrs. Lancaster, “that anything has 
given me more satisfaction than this engagementof Helena’s. 
It is the last thing I should have expected from her. You, 
Millie, have been from your birth a really good girl — you 
have always walked in the ways you ought to walk in — your 
ideas are what they should be, your religious convictions 
are correct, you are evangelical in the tone of your mind, 
you are not extravagant, you are not thoughtless, you have 
always been a comfort to me.” 

Mrs. Lancaster paused here. 

“Yes, mamma,” responded Millie. 


116 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


She was standing by her parent in one of the bay windows 
of the drawing room. She did not look well, and the expres- 
sion of her face was scarcely contented. Mrs. Lancaster 
surveyed her eldest daughter from top to toe. 

“Millie,” she said, “I am disappointed in you. Notwith- 
standing all your excellences you have turned out mediocre. 
You are twenty-three and you have not yet had a proposal. 
Chatty was married before she was twenty. Chatty was also 
a good girl, but not such a comfort to me as you have been. 
She, however, has gained a husband, she is established in a 
comfortable house in the country, and I feel that in every 
sense of the word I have done my duty by her.” 

“About Helena, mamma,” said Millie. “It was Helena 
you were talking of.” 

“Yes,” resumed Mrs. Lancaster, waving her hand in a 
slightly imperative manner, “I am coming back to the subject 
of Helena. As a child, Helena displeased me far more than 
either you or Chatty. She would not walk in the ways indi- 
cated to her by her mother. She was always troublesome at 
lessons; she was always untidy, awkward, and gauche in ap- 
pearance. When she was between fifteen and sixteen I felt 
absolutely in despair about her. It was at that time, you may 
remember, Millie, that she took such a violent friendship for 
her cousin Cecilia. I was terrified; I felt certain that she 
would become infected by Cecilia’s flighty ways.” 

“Well, mamma,” responded Millie, “the flighty ones, as 
you call them, seem to have the best of it. Cecilia is married 
to a very nice man; I am sure everyone likes Dr. Digby — 
and Helena ” 

“ Yes, yes, my dear. I am delighted with Helena. She has 
just done what I did not expect her to do — she has grow-n up 
a beauty, and she has become engaged to a wealthy and well 
connected man. There is no person of my acquaintance to 
w hom I would so gladly give my child as to James Phillips. 
He has everything to recommend him — money, position, 
talent, personal appearance.” 

“ Oh, yes ; mamma, yes. All the same I do not care for him ; 
I would much rather have Cecilia’s husband, Dr. Digby.” 

Mrs. Lancaster threw up her hands. “Millie,” she said, 
“you are incorrigible; you were all that was good and pleas- 
ant in your youth, but I perceive that, now you are really 
grown up, and indeed, my dear, past your very early youth, 
you are becoming eccentric. When once a woman becomes 


BRAINS OR MONET. 


117 


eccentric she is done for. Millie, I see that you intend to be 
the old maid of the family.” 

“Very well, mamma. There is generally an old maid in 
most households. I must, however, stick to my opinion 
that I prefer Cecilia’s husband to Helena’s betrothed.” 

“I grant that there is something lovable about Dr. Digby, 
said Mrs. Lancaster, “but he is poor, and he won’t do any- 
thing to advance himself. Now, dear James Phillips! — Oh, 
he is all that is delightful. He has just taken the house he 
ought to take in Hartrick Street, and he is certain to get a first- 
class practise before long. Of course a man with large private 
means can afford to wait for the best sort of patients. I should 
not wonder if he started as a specialist in some line; perhaps 
the eye. I think I shall suggest the eye to him. Oculists 
make enormous fortunes.” 

“I expect Dr. Phillips will make his choice independently 
of you, mamma,” said Millie Lancaster; then she added, lean- 
ing up against the window and looking out, “there was a time 
when Helena could not bear him. You remember how spiteful 
he was about Dr. Digby some years ago, and how rude to 
Cecilia.” 

“How rude Cecilia was to him, you mean, Millie.” 

“No, I don’t. I mean exactly what I said. Helena took 
Cecilia’s part then, and was never tired of abusing her 
beloved James; now she is in love with the same man and go- 
ing to marry him. Cecilia, too, seems quite friendly with 
him. Well, I call the world a strange and fickle place.” 

“I, on the contrary, call the world a sensible place, my dear 
Millie. To those who use it aright it brings wisdom with 
years. Cecilia has lost some of her erratic ways since her 
marriage, and Helena also has gained knowledge and is wise 
enough not to throw away her advantages. What a pretty 
creature she is now — any mother might be proud of her. Oh, 
and here she is — talk of an angel. Well, my darling, and 
what is the matter now? How excited you look!” 

Helena rushed into the room with the impetuosity of a sud- 
den and a vigorous spring breeze. She was in the daintiest 
of white muslin costumes. Her bonny nut-brown hair was 
tied back with blue ribbons, her cheeks had wild roses in 
them, and her big hazel eyes were wonderfully bright. Mrs. 
Lancaster went up to her young daughter, put her arms round 
her neck and kissed her. 

“Your dress is wonderfully becoming, Helena,” she said. 


118 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“Oh, yes, mamma, yes; but it doesn’t matter about my 
dress. Have you heard of poor dear Cecil?” 

“Nothing fresh, my dear. Poor dear Cecil seemed in per- 
fect health and spirits last night. Has anything happened 
to her since?” 

“Oh, haven’t you heard? James has just come, and he has 
told me — it is baby, dear little Nance. She was very ill 
last night and not expected to recover. I am going over to 
Cecil at once.” 

Mrs. Lancaster pushed back a few stray locks of Helena’s 
wavy hair. 

“My dear child,” she said, “of course I’m very sorry for 
Cecilia, but need you go yourself to inquire for baby? You 
know you are due at the Cravens’s afternoon party.” 

“You can give my excuses to them, mamma. You and 
Millie are going.” 

“And so is Dr. Phillips.” 

“Well, he is downstairs, he is waiting to accompany you; 
I am going to Cecilia. Do you think she can be in trouble 
like this, and I away from her? She is my dear friend, my 
very dearest friend.” 

“Helena darling, you will wear yourself out with this im- 
petuosity.” 

“I cannot help that, mamma; good-by; I just thought I’d 
tell you about the baby. ” Helena prepared to rush out of 
the room. 

“Does James know you are not going with us, Helena?” 

“I shall tell him as I run downstairs. Good-by, mamma; 
if you have no message for Cecilia I shall be off at once.” 

“Well, Helena, if you must go — I do not think it is pru- 
dent; the child may have something infectious. The Digbys 
live in such a horrid part of town. Oh, I declare she’s gone ! 
What a comfort that Dr. Phillips will soon have the manage- 
ment of her; she is too erratic — Helena [following her 
daughter to the top of the stairs], if you must go to Cecilia, 
give her our affectionate love; say all that’s proper. I’d 
come and see dear baby myself, but I haven’t a moment ; every 
second of my time is occupied with your trousseau, and the 
proper furnishing of your house just at present. Oh, I believe 
the child has gone ! I wonder if James Phillips has taken her. 
I do hate to see girls as pretty as Helena driving about in 
hansoms by themselves.” 

Mrs. Lancaster came back to her drawing room to inveigh 


BItAINS OB MONEY. 


119 


against the world in general, and against Cecilia Digby in 
particular for having a baby so troublesome as to be taken 
ill just when Helena- was most wanted at home. 

Phillips, who went to the drawing room a moment or two 
after, did certainly nothing to appease her wrath. 

“You must give my excuses to the Cravens,” he said. “I 
am not going there.” 

“O James,” said Mrs. Lancaster, looking with eyes full 
of admiration at her future son-in-law, “how trying all this 
must be for you! How can I apologize for Helen ?” 

“Apologize?” replied the young man. “There is nothing 
to apologize about. I should think very little of Helena 
if she did not go to see her friend when she is in trouble. 
Good-by, Mrs. Lancaster. I shall look in as usual this even- 

in g-” 

He left the room, looking handsome and dignified, and Mrs. 
Lancaster tried to smooth her ruffled brow r s and to winder 
what strange, new turn the world was taking in general. 

Meanwhile Helena’s hansom bowled swiftly away in the di- 
rection of Coxmoor Street. It arrived there in a little less 
than a quarter of an hour. Helena sprang lightly out, rang 
the bell at the Digbys’ hall door, and in another moment was 
standing by her friend’s side. 

“Hush!” said Cecilia, coming up to her cousin. “Don’t 
speak too loud ; baby is asleep in the next [room. She is 
much better; Laurence says she will live now.” 

“Dear Cecil!” exclaimed Helena. She put her arms round 
her friend’s neck and kissed her two or three times. “How 
dreadful you look,” she said; “how white, how worn! To 
think that I should have been sleeping happily, and you in 
this agony. Cecil, you look ten years older than you did 
this time yesterday.” 

“Hush!” said Cecilia again, speaking still in that strained 
sort of subdued voice. “I am all right now, but since I saw 
you — since I saw you, Helena, I think I must have descended 
into hell. For a time I was there in the fire. It is all over 
now, for baby will live, but I am numbed to-day, in every sense 
of the word.” 

There was no doubt that Helena understood her cousin 
Cecilia. She did not worry her with any more questions. 

“You want a rest,” she said. “Sit in this easy-chair and 
talk to me. But, first, may I get you a cup of coffee? You 
know I can make it splendidly.” 


120 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“If you like, darling.” Cecilia sat back in the armchair 
in which Helena had placed her, and closed her eyes wearily. 

“I will be back in ten minutes,” said the youngest Miss 
Lancaster. With a bright little nod she ran out of the room 
and went down to Cecilia’s kitchen. It was by no means her 
first visit to this apartment, and the overworked general ser- 
vant received her with good humor. Helena made her coffee 
in her way, and also toasted some bread, and brought the 
coffee and the toast, daintily served, to her friend. They had 
a cup of coffee each, and Cecilia ate some of the crisp 
toast. Then Helena began to talk about her own pros- 
pects. 

“I know baby is doing well,” she said. 

“Yes, she’ll be much as usual by to-morrow.” 

“Well, we must talk of somebody else. Please try and 
remember that I am the important person now. It is very 
nice to be a bride-elect, and to be fussed over, and to have 
everything you say thought clever, and every dress you put 
on becoming. These kind of things are wonderfully pleasant, 
and, as I have never had them before in my life, they make 
me feel happy. You know, Cecilia, that James and I are to 
be married in six weeks?” 

“Yes, Helen, I know.” 

“You wish us happiness, don’t you?” 

“Of course, of course. Most earnestly I wish it.” 

“Thank you, Cecil. Yes, I am sure I shall be very happy. 
James is always telling me how much he loves me, and I think 
he grows nicer every day. I don’t know, what has changed 
him, but he is quite a different man from the Dr. Phillips 
whom you and I used to speak against long ago. Perhaps we 
didn’t understand him long ago. Oh, how angry I was with 
him once about you and Laurence!” 

“Let us forget that old affair, Helen.” 

“Yes, if you like, but I spoke to him about it one day, 
and he put things in a much pleasanter light. I should like 
to tell you what he said.” 

“And I would rather not hear.” Cecilia put her hand to 
her forehead. “I am willing to believe that Dr. Phillips’s ex- 
planation clears all mists away,” she said, “but at the same 
time I don’t want to listen to anything further on the subject. 
Believe me, Helen, it is forgotten both by my husband and 
myself.” 

“Cecilia,” said Helen Lancaster, laying her hands on her 


BRAINS OR MONET. 


121 


cousin’s knee and looking at her Avith a world of entreaty in 
her face, “James and I are very anxious that Dr. Digby 
should come to Hartrick Street. James thinks most highly 
of your husband.” 

“Does he?” responded Cecilia. There were both sarcasm 
and doubt in her words. The coffee that Helena had given 
her had roused her out of the dormant state into which she had 
sunk after her extreme suffering of the night before. She re- 
membered, though it seemed a far-off event, the queer, trium- 
phant, malignant look in Phillips’s eyes when he spoke of 
Hartrick Street and when he looked at her. The look in his 
eyes belied the words on his lips. She felt that she doubted 
and hated the man as much as ever, and yet she must keep all 
such feelings under for Helen’s sake. Cecilia felt certain 
that Phillips did not really care for her husband; that Digby ’s 
advancement was the last thing he truly desired. This 
thought brought a fierce, angry throbbing to her tired heart. 
She felt a deep desire to show to Phillips how superior her 
learned and gifted husband was to him. 

“What are you thinking of, Cecil? I know by the expres- 
sion of your eyes that you are having some thoughts and that 
they are not very pleasant ones.” 

“I will forget them, dear Helen.” 

“Well,” said Helen, “do let us talk of Hartrick Street. 
Would you not like to come and live there?” 

“I should like it, I should like it dearly, but Laurence 
would think it a most mad step.” 

“I wish he would talk to James about it,” said Helen. 
“You know that James is very rich ; I believe he has more 
money than he knows what to do with.” 

“I have heard that he is rich.” 

“And he wants to help your husband,” continued Helena. 
“Your husband has got a clew to something, I have not an 
idea what it is, which interests James very much. If James 
has a fault it is his ambition. He told me to-day that ambi- 
tion — the desire to appear in a good light before the world — 
was so strong in his nature that he felt it to be almost a curse. 
He does say strange things now and then, and I fail to un- 
derstand him, but I know he is anxious to help your husband. 
Perhaps he thinks they might both work this discovery, what- 
ever it is, together. He said to me this afternoon that Dr. 
Digby had brains to any extent, but brains without money 
were very little use,” 


122 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“That fact remains to be proved,” said Cecilia, moving 
restlessly in her chair. 

“Would not your husband talk to James about his dis- 
covery; that is, if he has a discovery?” 

“You are talking very wildly, Helen,” replied Cecilia, 
with a laugh; “I have not the least idea to what you allude.” 

“James did say ” 

“Forgive me, Helen, I don’t want to hear what James 
said. My husband is fond of making experiments, and he has 
a deep, great, and reverent love for science. If he has dis- 
covered anything new in the scientific world he has never told 
me about it, so I am quite sure that Dr. Phillips labors under 
a mistake. If he wishes us to come to Hartrick Street he 
must not run away with the idea that Laurence can promote 
his interest or add to his reputation in any way.” 

CHAPTER IV. 
digby’s discovery. 

It was rather late on that same evening that Cecilia 
knocked at her husband’s study door. He said “Come in,” 
and she entered and came swiftly to his side. 

“Laurence, you must put away your papers and books and 
listen to me. I have a great deal to say to you ; I have some 
very important things to talk over.” 

Digby looked up at her with a long, affectionate gaze. 

“Very well, my love,” he said, “just allow me to score 
this passage and to put a mark into this volume, and I am at 
your disposal.” 

“How much you read, Laurence; how hard you study. 
There are wrinkles on your brow now; they come from 
hard reading and from much thought. ’ ’ 

Digby smiled again. He took his wife’s hand and raised 
it to his brow. 

“Smooth the wrinkles out,” he said. 

She bent her head and kissed him. 

“I could not live without my books and my study,” he 
continued, 'after a pause. “They are my relaxations. One 
man finds pleasure in one thing, one in another. When I dip 
into these books I find the amusement that a man differently 
organized would take out of his club, out of a game of bil- 
liards, out of fifty other matters. Do you mind, Cecilia?” 


DIGBY’S DISCOVERY. 


123 


“No,” she replied, “I feel proud of your tastes.” 

She stood tall and straight beside his chair. Her hair, 
rather deeper in tone than of old, surrounded her thoughtful 
and spiritual type of face like a pale flame. There were 
shadowy lines under her eyes, and her mouth had the look of 
a tired and not altogether satisfied child. 

Digby looked up at her, forgot himself at once, and began 
to speak in a professional tone. 

“How stupid of me to keep you standing here,” he said; 
“you look quite ill. My dear, I must talk to you as a doctor 
as well as a husband. You must try not to allow your feel- 
ings to get the better of you to the extent they did last 
night. I found you in an alarming state when I came from 
baby’s room ; it is wrong to use up emotion to the extent you 
do, Cecilia.” 

“Don’t scold me, Laurie,” she answered, in a gentle voice. 
“I was not quite so bad last night as I was the other time.” 

“What other time?” 

“When I nearly killed Tommy Constantine. I did not 
faint last night.” 

“No; it might have been better if you had.” 

“It would not have been better. I kept consciousness, and 
that was everything. I have achieved a victory, though 
you don’t seem to see it. Next time — oh, God! if there is to 
be a next time of such agony — I shall do better still.” 

Digby, who had risen and put his arm round his wife’s 
waist, now moved a step or two from her side and watched 
her with anxiety. 

“Come, come,” he said, “let us stop heroics and descend 
to commonplaces. There is nothing I hate more than a 
woman going in for unhealthy self-examination. Your 
mother heart was tortured last night. My darling, it has been 
the will of God to stay his hand and to leave us our dear 
little girl. Let us think of no ‘next time,’ but come to the 
drawing room and be comfortable.” 

Cecilia’s face grew bright. 

“Will you spend the whole evening with me, Laurence?” 

“I think I may promise to do so. I do not believe that I 
shall have a single case to attend to to-night.” 

“Then I will go and make the room lovely,” said Cecilia. 

She ran on before her husband, lit the candles in the draw- 
ing room — Digby hated gas — placed a great bowl of roses 
where her husband could see and smell them, put his arm- 


124 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


chair where the faint summer breeze came in through the open 
window, and then stood in an expectant, eager attitude, 
waiting for him to enter the room and fill it with light and 
love. 

Digby took possession of his chair with a sigh of relief. 

“It is very nice to cast off all worries for a bit,” he said. 
“Shall I read to you, Cecil? How are we to spend our two 
hours’ holiday?” 

“I want to talk,” she answered, pulling a hassock forward 
and seating herself by his side. 

“Well, darling, begin,” he replied. 

“First, about Babs. Are you anxious about her now, 
Laurence?” 

“For the present I am not at all anxious, Cecilia. Little 
Nance had a bad and dangerous teething attack. I lanced 
her gums and she got relief. The cause of her attack of last 
night being removed, she is practically now quite well.” 

“Yes,” answered Cecilia, “I saw her half an hour ago; she 
was in a heavenly sleep. There was a rosebud on her little 
cheek, and her hand, which she had thrown outside the cover- 
let, was like a half opened flower. She had a smile round her 
lips, as if she were having a very happy dream. I kissed her 
on her white forehead and whispered, ‘Thank you, little 
Nance, for not going away to the angels.’ ” 

“Cecilia, you are full of pretty and poetical thoughts, but 
your mind wants bracing. Be satisfied that baby is a 
thoroughly earthly little mortal, likely, with care, to lead a 
long life, and forget about the chance she ran of being an 
angel. Now, shall we go on with ‘Barchester Towers’? I 
am interested in Mrs. Proudie, if you are not.” 

“I could not stand Mrs. Proudie to-night; she would jar 
on me. Laurie, I must talk to you.” 

“Well, my love, I am here to be talked to.” 

“I am not a scrap hysterical to-night, but I must know the 
truth.” 

“My dear,” answered Digby, in a grave voice, “I in- 
variably tell you the exact truth.” 

“Thank you, Laurence. Nothing rests me like that knowl- 
edge. Now for my question. Why did you ask me about 
my parents when baby was so ill?” 

“Because I wanted to be guided to a right diagnosis of her 
case.” 

“But you were not; she was only teething.” 


DIGBY’ S DISCOVERY. 


125 


‘ 4 True; my fears were not realized.” 

“Your fears are gone now, are they not?” 

“For the present they are, Cecilia. Baby is fast recovering 
her normal state of vigorous health.” 

“You do not think,” pursued Cecilia, “that she inherits 
anything from my mother?” 

Digby fidgeted in his chair. 

“Is this a holiday, or is it not?” he asked. “If my mind is 
to be dissected, and you are to be the surgeon, we had better 
go back to my study.” 

“No, Laurence. You must not turn off my remarks with 
a light jest. I shall be as good and brave as any man can 
desire, but I must learn the truth.” 

“By Jove, you must!” said Digby. “What creatures 
women are ! How persistent, how tenacious, how unreason- 
able! How unswerving of purpose! You know that at 
each footstep you tread on a sword, and yet you go on without 
faltering. Let me stand up, Cecilia” — she had placed her 
two hands on his knee. “If you will turn our holiday into a 
torture chamber, the fault lies on your own head.” 

He rose and stood over her. She did not attempt to get 
on her feet. She looked up at him from her half kneeling 
position. His words were spoken slowly ; they fell on her ears 
with the relentless cruelty of an inexorable decree. 

“Cecilia,” said Digby, “our child undoubtedly inherits 
those seeds of death which laid your mother in her grave 
when she was still a young woman.” 

“Those seeds of death!” repeated Cecilia. She did not 
seem capable of comprehending her husband’s words; her 
eyes looked as if she were dreaming. 

“Those seeds of death,” continued Digby, “that inherited 
taint which can show itself in a thousand ways. Your mother 
died from consumption. Consumption can take many cruel 
guises. It can declare itself in this form and in that. It can 
kill through the lungs, through disease of the throat ; the brain 
can become affected — oh, I need not go on. Consumption is 
the greatest curse of the human race. If a cure could be 
found for it — a certain and radical cure — the discoverer 
would be the greatest benefactor of his race. Cecilia,” 
continued Digby passionately, “when a cure is found for con- 
sumption half the tears that women shed will be wiped away 
— in short, that blessed time will be millennium.” 

“Yes,” replied Cecilia; “girls such [as I was before you 


126 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


loved me and married me will not exist, and mothers such as 
I now am will not go about the world with broken hearts. 
But the cure is not found, Laurence. Dear, how white you 
look, how agitated; your hand — -your strong, firm hand — 
trembles, and your eyes burn! There is fire behind, some- 
where in your brain. What is the matter? You look as if 
you knew something. What is it ? Can a cure be found 
for consumption?” 

“I will tell you presently,” replied Digby. * ‘ Don’t ex- 
cite yourself. There is nothing to make you very joyful. I 
wish, first of all, to speak about our little daughter. She had 
an attack of her brain last night. Such attacks are due either 
to pressure caused by teething, or a particular form of inflam- 
mation, which attacks a portion of the brain and which those 
born with the hereditary taint of consumption are particu- 
larly susceptible to.” 

“Then baby’s attack of last night was not due to the — the 
hereditary taint?” 

“No, thank God. She is well now. She may never have 
a similar attack to what so nearly took her off last night; 
but, all the same, she inherits the taint. All through her life 
it will imperil her. It is possible, just barely possible, that 
she may escape the worst attacks of the foe, but the fatal 
mischief is concealed in her system.” 

“Then shall I, too, die of consumption? I am well now; 
I am fairly strong.” 

“It is impossible to tell, Cecilia, whether you will escape 
or not. Up to the present you are free from any actual 
disease, but a trifling cold, a very slight neglect which would 
not affect another person in the least may bring you danger 
or even death. You must be very careful, and yet, with all 
your care, you may not escape the assaults of the foe.” 

“I do not mind for myself,” said Cecilia, “but for Nance! 
Laurence, you ought never to have married me. People who 
inherit consumption ought not to marry.” 

“That is true. We married in haste. We loved each 
other. We acted as many poor fools have acted before, as 
many will act to the end of time.” 

“ Oh, dear husband ! we have been so happy. ” Cecilia rose 
now, and went up to Digby and put her slender arms round 
his neck. He pressed her slight form to his heart, and kissed 
her on her lips. 

“ Sit down again, ’ ’ he said. “ The past is past ; we have to 


DIGBY' S DISCOVERY. 


12 1 


do what we can in the future. Sit down. Put your hand into 
mine. I want to think.” 

Digby shaded his eyes with his own big hand. The fur- 
rows on his brow were very marked as he sat in this position. 
The light from the candle shone on the silver hair on his 
temples. He was a young man still, not more thau six-and- 
tliirty, but his attitude just now was not that of youth. 

“ Cecilia,” he said, after a pause, “there are more gray days 
than gold in life. It seems to me that a doctor sees all the 
gray and little of the sunshine.” 

“It is not like you to talk in that fashion, Laurence.” 

“No: but I am thinking of the child. I would give my 
life to save our child!” 

“And so would I.” 

Digby was silent again for several minutes. Cecilia still 
felt in that sort of dream which paralyzes intense feeling. She 
had suffered so vividly the night before that now the worst 
suffering was not possible to her. She sat with her hands 
folded, her heart comparatively at rest, but with her brain 
actively working. After a little she touched her husband on 
his arm. 

“Laurence, why did you look so excited when you spoke of 
a possible cure for one of the greatest curses of the human 
race ? Oh,” she added, jumping up suddenly, “have you got 
the threads in your hands? Is that — is that the discovery 
you have hinted at to me once 4 or twice? If so, it has got 
wind in the profession. Helena came to me to-day, and said 
that Dr. Phillips was aware of your having partly discovered 
something — something of immense value to science.” 

“He said that?” exclaimed Digby. “Helena came to you 
with a message ? ” 

“Well, not exactly with a message, only Dr. Phillips said 
that discoveries were worthless without money; he says that 
you have brains.” 

“He admits that at last!” exclaimed Digby. “His money 
and my brains shall never work in conjunction.” 

“I knew you would say something of that sort. I told 
Helena as much.” 

“You were right, Cecilia. I have an antipathy to that 
man. Of course, I should not stoop to quarrel with him, 
but as to making him my confidant — heaven forbid!” 

“But you will tell me if there is any hope. You will tell 
me ?” 


128 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“My dear, I do not know that there is the slightest hope.” 

“Laurence, you do know something.” 

“I will tell you a short story, Cecilia; you will take it for 
what it is worth.” 

“Yes, yes,” she answered impatiently. 

“Long ago, when first I entered the medical profession, 
some years before I met you, my dear, I had occasion to see 
patients who were suffering from scrofula, one of the com- 
mon forms which this terrible disease takes. In making 
pathological observations I made a certain discovery, worth 
something or nothing, according to the views taken of it, and 
according to the results which I was able to produce. My 
discovery amounted to this : I saw that there was one con- 
stant element in all these cases of tubercular disease, and it 
flashed across me one day that this very element, which was 
never absent, if properly treated, might in itself contain the 
antidote to the disease. In short, I had something of the idea 
which Jenner employed so successfully in vaccination. It 
is difficult for me to go into all the medical terms with you. 
Suffice it to say that after many difficulties I produced a lymph 
which I thought might be employed as a preventative, if in- 
troduced into the human frame. Of course, the experiment 
in the first instance would be fraught with the greatest risk; 
in short, if I were to try my cure on a consumptive or scrofu- 
lous patient, death might be the result. I did not dare to try 
it. For many reasons I objected to making my experiment 
on animals, one of them being a certain reluctance to causing 
suffering, another the undoubted fact that the body of the 
animal differs in many essentials from the human frame. I 
thought, and thought, and at last I came to a bold resolve. 
My father and mother and sisters were all dead. I had no 
wdfe; I had no near relations. There was no one who would 
greatly sorrow if I died. It occurred to me that I would ex- 
periment on myself. I thought of this for several days; I 
knew well the danger which I must run, but my possible 
discovery, my possible great cure, haunted me day and 
night. I resolved at length to introduce the lymph into my 
own body. I prepared it carefully, and one day I made the 
experiment. In the course of time, fever followed. I was 
very ill. I lay almost at death’s door for days, but in the 
end I slowly crept back to life and health. 

“I was not deterred by these effects on my own frame from 


DIGBY' S DISCOVERY. 


129 


making further experiments. When I became well again, I 
prepared more lymph, in a more diluted form. I introduced 
this into my body. There were no bad results whatever ; I re- 
mained perfectly well. I wondered if the first dose I had ad- 
ministered had really killed the susceptibility to tubercular 
disease in my system. With a daring which many men 
might consider foolhardy, I made the poison strong, as strong 
as the first dose, and once more injected it under my skin. 
There were no results. I had no fever; I was in perfect 
health. I felt quite sure now that, as far as I was concerned, 
I was perfectly protected from the chance of developing any of 
the many forms of consumption.” 

Digby paused. 

“Well, Laurence, go on! Tell me more. You surely 
didn’t stop there? Your discovery was all but made. You 
tried it next on one of your patients, did you not?” 

“No, my dear, I did not dare to do this. The discovery 
was but in its infancy. If I, a perfectly healthy subject, 
all but died from the effects of the first dose/a patient suffer- 
ing from any form of the disease might die under the effects 
of the most remote portion of the poison which I should intro- 
duce into the system. I dared not risk the chance of such an 
appalling catastrophe, and from that day to this my discovery, 
or my half discovery, has lain useless, as far as the human race 
is concerned.” 

“ But this is wicked of you ! When you can save life, and 
avert so much misery, how dare you keep such a secret to 
yourself?” 

“I always hope that I may live to perfect it,” responded 
Digby. “ Or if not I, some other and wiser man may take up 
my immature idea, and make use of it to bless the world. 
Up to the present, no further light has been given me. I 
wait patiently. In its present stage I dare not experiment; 
for in most cases, perhaps in every case, death, not cure, 
might be the result.” 

“You think I have got tubercular disease,” said Cecilia, 
her eyes shining; “at least, you know that I hyve got the 
seeds of it within me. I would let you try on me ; I would 
be a willing subject for you to experiment on.” 

“No, my darling. I would not dare to do this. You are 
too precious to me.” 

Digby rose from his chair, and began to pace restlessly up 


130 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


and down the little drawing room. Cecilia rose too; she 
slipped her hand through his arm, and accompanied him in his 
walk. 

“ This discovery of yours, if perfected, might be the means 
of saving little Nance,” she exclaimed. . 

“Undoubtedly it might.” 

“Why don’t you work at it day and night?” 

“ I have never done thinking about it, but I can make very 
little way without endless experiments.” 

“And those?” 

“Impossible, Cecilia. Do not let us discuss the subject 
any further.” 

Digby passed his hand wearily across his forehead. 

“I am sorry our conversation has taken this dismal turn,” 
he said, after a pause. “As regards baby, she is well at 
present. She will always require careful watching, but with 
that it is most unlikely that anything serious will occur for 
many years of her life. Consumption in many cases spares 
children. Long before little Nance eve n approaches maturity, 
my discovery may have developed and assumed a practical 
shape.” 

“God grant it!” exclaimed [Cecilia. “I will pray about 
this day and night. What a benefactor you may be to the 
human race! To live for such an object is noble.” 

Digby ’s eyes shone with that fine fire which always filled 
them when his best instincts were raised. 

“I would die in the cause,” he said, in a low voice, “but 
that is not saying much.” 

“It is saying all,” responded his wife proudly. “O 
Laurence, how deeply I love you !” 

“I know you do,” he said, stooping and kissing her. He 
was a man of few words and undemonstrative. Cecilia 
treasured up his caress as something to be remembered by 
and by. 

“Now,” he said, assuming a light and cheerful tone, “you 
brought me up here to talk about something quite different. 
What is it? What is at the back of your head, wife?” 

“I want to go and live in Hartrick Street. There, I have 
said it.” Cecilia’s face was flooded all over with color, her 
eyes shone, her beautiful lips looked petulant and charm- 
ing. 

“I am amazed,” said Digby, after a pause. “I did not 
think it was in you, Cecilia, to give up peace, no debts, a 


DIGBY’S DISCOVERY. 


131 


contented mind, for ambition, large money responsibilities, 
and discontent.” 

“No, no. I wish for the change for none of these things: 
it is because you are buried here — buried! You have no 
patients who appreciate you.” 

“ I deny that, Cecil. My patients not only appreciate me, 
they love me.” 

“Yes, yes, all those poor folk, those middle class people. 
Any other doctor would do as well for them.” 

“They also give me a living, Cecilia. I make from four 
to five hundred a year in this place. If I took a house in 
Hartrick Street, I should expend some thousands, or rather 
I should run up debts to that amount, and have no returns to 
meet them. My dear, if I could afford it I would go there. 
As it is ” 

“Laurence, all your friends advise you to go.” 

“I don’t [understand you. What friend, unless it is my 
wife, has deliberately asked me to cut my throat?” 

“ If you will look at it in that way I have nothing more to 
say,” answered Cecilia, half pouting. “The Lancasters think 
you ought to go, and so does Dr. Phillips.” 

“A fig for Phillips. He has no right to make use of the 
word ‘ought’ as concerns my life.” 

“ I will confess the truth to you,” said Cecilia, after a pause. 
“It is principally because of Dr. Phillips that I want you to 
go. I hate him, and I know he hates you. I know also that 
in his heart of hearts he does not want you to succeed. It is 
possible that he may wish to have you near him in order to share 
the glory of your discovery, but, apart from that, he has no 
good desires toward you. You know, Laurence, how super- 
ficial he is. You know that he has not a spark of originality 
in him. His genius compared to yours ‘is like water unto 
wine.’ Why should he succeed, and you — and you fail?” 

“If I stay quietly here, Cecil, I shall not fail, according 
to my ideas of failure. I shall live an honorable and con- 
tented life. As the years go on I shall have a larger and 
larger practice — not among the rich and powerful, but among 
the poor and sorrowful. As far as money is concerned, my 
gains will not be considerable, but do you think nothing of 
all the ‘God bless you’s’ that a doctor can get, of the love he 
can inspire, and the suffering he can lessen? My dear, it is 
possible, it is just possible, to find a man now and then who 
thinks more of these things, to whom they are Letter and a 


132 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


brighter crown than mere money. I can go to Hartrick Street, 
Cecilia, and, taking the brightest view of the question, I may 
even be successful there, and yet miss that little wreath of 
laurels that I covet.” 


CHAPTER Y. 

THE WINDOW DODGE. 

When a man wishes to do one thing and a woman earnestly 
desires him to do another, if the woman is clever and he is 
fond of her, the chances are that, little by little, she pulls him 
in the direction to which her own desires tend. He may be 
a man of the most unswerving rectitude of purpose, he may 
be firm as adamant, and may be almost obstinate in making 
up his mind, and sticking to his opinion when it is expressed. 
Still, the clever woman whom he loves will influence him in 
the end according to her own desires. 

If she is diplomatic, she will effect this end more quickly 
than if she fails in this quality, but in any case she will suc- 
ceed. 

Digby hated going in debt. He disliked anything even 
approaching to ostentation. He was not ambitious. He was 
a man who in many respects felt old before his time; he took 
life with the patient gravity of one who knows that he can 
only do a little, a very little, to lift the dark curtain of suffer- 
ing which envelops so many lives. 

To such a man fame had little charm and riches were not 
alluring; but there was a glint which he missed out of Cecilia’s 
bright eyes. To bring that back again he would sacrifice 
sweet content and a humble, happy, unembarrassed home for 
all the cares which must accompany a man who deliberately 
chooses to live beyond his means. 

Cecilia’s first talk with Digby on the subject of the house in 
Hartrick Street was followed by many others. She was 
patient but persistent in her efforts to bring him to see the 
folly of living shut away from the world. 

One day she made him yield to the extent of going to see 
the house. He pronounced it depressing, dark, a great deal 
too large, and badly drained. 

Cecilia had an answer to every objection. The landlord 
would repaint, repaper, redecorate. He would also resanitate 
from attic to cellar. 


THE WINDOW DODGE. 


133 


Digby sighed, but he accompanied his wife to the house 
which Phillips was now making beautiful for the reception 
of his pretty bride. 

Digby acknowledged that Phillips’s house looked very nice. 

“We will have just such a paper in our drawing-room,” 
said Cecilia; “that soft pale, china tone of blue rests the eye 
so delightfully.” 

“I did not know, Cecil,” replied Digby, “that you cared 
for this sort of thing. This new side of your character 
puzzles and bewilders me.” 

In reply to this speech Cecilia looked carefully behind 
her. She and her husband were standing alone in Phillips’s 
beautiful drawing room. 

“Laurence,” she whispered, “I think of all these things, I 
make my mind full of them, to shut away that knowledge you 
gave me the other night about baby and myself.” 

“You forced me to tell you,” replied Digby. “Now that 
you know, it is your duty to forget as far as lies in your 
power. ” 

“Then give me this house, make me its mistress, and 
give me also a husband whom men and women will talk of 
with pride as one of the greatest and best men in his profes- 
sion.” 

“And so your heart is really set on this, Cecilia?” he an- 
swered, and a harassed, worried, disappointed expression 
came into his eyes. 

The next day Dr. and Mrs. Digby paid a visit to the agent 
in whose hands the letting of the house was. They then 
went home to Coxmoor Street, and Digby asked Cecilia 
gravely how she contemplated furnishing the new house. 

“For the things we have here,” he said, “might fit com- 
fortably in a corner of one of the big rooms. Is the rest of 
the house to go empty?” 

Cecilia had thought a great deal about the furnishing. 
Her quick mind had leaped on, many times, to the moment 
when Digby would show her the lease of the house in Hartrick 
Street all duly signed and attested. She was not going to 
divulge her plans just now. She stooped down, and, taking 
up little toddling Nance, held her so that she might play 
with Digby’s grizzled hair. 

“The furnishing must be managed,” said Cecilia, “but 
there is time enough. Baby has brought you a letter, Lau- 
rence. Read it, and forget your worries.” 


134 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Digby having no relations but bis wife and child had also a 
very scant correspondence, and the words “a letter for 
you” roused his interest. He took both baby and letter into 
his arms, and Cecilia went out of the room to prepare the 
tea. 

When she came back Digby and Nance were having a game 
of ball together, the crumpled up envelope of the letter be- 
ing extemporized into a ball for the occasion. 

Little Nance had a merry laugh, like a clear, silver bell. 
She could use her sturdy legs well, and Digby’s awkward at- 
tempts to catch the ball provoked exquisite mirth on the part 
of baby. 

Cecilia brought in the tea herself, and began to pour it out. 
The open letter lay on the table by her side. Her eyes rested 
on it. Digby w^as under the table catching the ball, and 
Babs was rolling about on the floor and chuckling. 

Cecilia took up the letter and read it. 

“Laurence!” she exclaimed, in a sharp, surprised voice. 

“Yes, my love? Give me one minute — ah, here it is — 
now, Nance, catch! Hold out your arms, monkey. Now 
then — what, missed again? Yes, Cecilia, what is it?” 

“ Only this letter,” said Cecilia. 

Digby rose and seated himself once more in his favorite 
armchair. 

“Come here, Nance,” he said. He took his little daughter 
in his arms, and covered her soft face and sweet, white neck 
with kisses. 

“You have read the letter, Cecil?” he said then, putting one 
arm round the little child, who looked at him with an earnest, 
half grave, half amused, expression. “Yes, I see that you 
have read the letter. I thought you would be pleased. It’s 
more than I am. Of course, that clinches the Hartrick Street 
matter. Hey-ho, Nance! how many games of ball will we 
have together when we find ourselves weighed down with re- 
sponsibility, when we sit waiting for patients who don’t 
come — for the East End doctor has no place in the West. 
Now, my love, what is it? Nance, run to your mother and 
comfort her.” 

Digby got up, and placed the child in his wife’s arms. 

“I see that I must go to Hartrick Street, Cecilia,” he said, 
“and, once the die is cast, I promise you I won’t groan any 
more.” 

For the letter in Cecilia’s hand contained news of a wind- 


THE WINDOW DODGE. 


135 


fall. An old friend of his mother’s had left Digby a thousand 
pounds. 

“We can furnish the house now,” said Cecilia gladly. 
“ Laurence, the day will come when you will he proud to know 
that you followed your wife’s wishes. In this matter I am 
positive that I am right. It is an absolute sin for you, a man 
with your abilities, to bury yourself in Coxmoor Street.” 

“I am going to emerge from my retirement,” replied 
Digby. “ Right or wrong, I obey the voice which prompts 
me and impels me; I say nothing more of my feelings in the 
matter. But, Cecil, you are, after all, a very ignorant little 
woman of the world; for how far do you think a thousand 
pounds will go in furnishing a house like the one in Hartrick 
Street?” 

Cecilia opened her gray eyes very wide. 

“A thousand pounds seems to me unlimited wealth,” she 
replied. “ I can scarcely grasp the idea of anyone spending 
a whole thousand pounds on any single thing, even on house 
furnishing. Surely, Laurence, we shall use about half this 
money and have a lovely house?” 

“Wait and see,” replied Digby, laughing. “Go to Maple, 
or Shoolbred, or Whiteley, and after a talk with them come 
and tell me again what you can effect with our legacy. 
Now, my dear, there is a ring at my patients’ bell. I told 
Harper to look round this evening. Poor fellow, he doesn’t 
seem to get much better.” 

Digby left the room, and Cecilia sat down and began to play 
with Nance, and to dream of the good time that was coming. 

Unlike most wives of medical men, she knew something of 
most of her husband’s patients: she was keenly interested 
in them. She visited many of them, and did more good by 
her sympathy than Digby did by his medicines. Harper, a 
waterman on the Thames, was a special favorite of hers. On 
ordinary occasions she would have been distressed at her hus- 
band’s report of the poor man’s health, but to-night her 
thoughts were far away. She was dazzled by the bright 
picture she believed to be before her, and for the first time 
she felt absolutely certain that ambition occupied a very 
large part of her character. 

The next morning Cecilia put on her bonnet, and dressing 
Nance in a charming little summer costume, took the child in 
her arms, and walked with her to King’s Cross. She intended 
to pay her friend Miss Timmins a visit. 


133 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


In due time Mrs. Digby and ber little daughter arrived at 
Miss Timmins’s humble door. Cecilia rang the bell at the 
wicket gate, and, as she did years before, Miss Timmins re- 
plied to the summons herself. She gave a scream of delight 
when she saw Cecilia and Nance. 

“Come in, come in, my dear,” she exclaimed. “IIow 
sweet of you, Cecilia, to bring baby. This is sunshine in- 
deed. But, my dear love, I have nothing to give you for 
dinner. ” 

“What does this basket contain?” asked Cecilia, laughing. 
“Dinner for Babs, dinner for you, dinner for me. It is 
such a lovely day, can’t we eat it in the garden at the back 
of your house?” 

“No, no, my dear, we will have our dinner in the parlor. 
Cecilia, how well you look, how bright; and baby is the very 
bonniest creature. My love, is it true that this little one has 
been seriously ill?” 

Cecilia’s bright face changed color. 

“A thing of the past,” she exclaimed hurriedly; “a teeth- 
ing attack. My dear doctor soon put her right. Doesn’t she 
look strong, Miss Timmins?” 

Miss Timmins examined little Nance critically. 

“My love,” she replied, “I am not a mother, but I have 
had plenty to do with babies in my time, and I can confidently 
say I never saw a firmer and finer child.” 

Cecilia ran up to the old lady and kissed her. 

• “You make my heart rejoice,” she said. “Nance, put 
your arms round dear old Aunt Abigail’s neck and give her 
a hug.” 

Nance, who had been standing by her mother, toddled 
gravely over to Miss Timmins. 

“I tiss oo,” she said, “cos oo’s dood, but oo’s not pitty.” 

She raised her cherub lips, and Miss Timmins caught her 
in her arms and smothered her with kisses. 

“Hark to the sweet little lamb!” she said. “Cecilia, I 
wonder what life would be like if we kept as truthful all our 
days as when we are eighteen months old?” 

Cecilia sighed, and a puzzled expression crept over her 
face. 

“I cannot go into metaphysics to-day,” she exclaimed. “I 
have come here to consult you. We are going away from 
Coxmoor Street. We have taken a house, or we are about 
to take a house, in Hartrick Street. You know Hartrick 


THE WINDOW DODGE. 


137 


Street? It is the place where all the doctors who mean 
to become anything live. Laurence will soon get a good set 
of patients when we have settled ourselves in the right 
quarter. A legacy has been left to my husband of a thousand 
pounds. With that sum we will furnish the house. I know 
you live in a very small house, dear Miss Timmins, but I have 
also heard you say that at one time of your life you have had 
plenty to do with rich people and their ways. Can you help 
me to furnish my house?” 

Now no proposition that Cecilia could make was more likely 
to please Miss Timmins. The thought of helping this young 
wife and mother to make her new house charming would have 
fascinated most lonely old maids. Miss Timmins had come 
to think Cecilia Digby and her little daughter Nance the two 
dearest people in the world. Her old heart had entwined it- 
self round them. She was old herself, but in her contact 
with these two her heart had grown young and strong and 
fresh. She looked at Cecilia now from head to foot; then 
her eyes wandered to the pretty little Nance, then again they 
sought the mother’s fresh and charming face. 

“I am sorry you are going to Hartrick Street,” she ex- 
claimed. 

“Oh, don’t begin that plaint,” said Cecilia. “I have gone 
through all that. Laurence and I have talked over the pros 
and cons until we are both weary. It is all my doing. 
Laurence would rather remain in obscurity, but I have urged 
him, I have persuaded, I have prevailed. I am willing to 
take all the responsibility of this step, and I won’t listen to 
any more argument about it. If my friends disapprove, they 
must be silent. My mind is irrevocably made up. We go 
to Hartrick Street, and Laurence fights for his position among 
men of his own standing; he meets his peers in the world 
of intellect, and has the same chance as other clever 
men.” 

“Your husband has not the same chance,” responded Miss 
Timmins, in a very grave voice, “for, unless I mistake, he is 
without capital. A doctor without capital is always at a 
disadvantage. I know that, my dear, for my father was a 
clever but unsuccessful medical man.” 

“Oh,” said Cecilia, “Laurence’s case shall be without prece- 
dent. He has no capital, but he shall succeed.” 

She spoke defiantly, and crimson spots rose to each of her 
cheeks. Miss Timmins gazed at her in a "sort of bewilder- 


138 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


ment, then she rose from her chair, "and said in a solemn 
voice : 

“ God forgive you, Cecilia Digby. You have astonished 
me to-day. God grant you may never repent of this.” 

Cecilia turned pale; she got up from her chair, and put out 
her hand, which slightly trembled, to grasp that of little 
Nance. 

“So you won’t help me, Miss Timmins?” she said. 

“Sit down again, my love. I will help you with all my 
heart. I have had my say. If the die is cast, it is useless 
to waste words over the matter. Now to business. What 
size is your house?” 

After this the two women had a long and interesting dis- 
cussion. Miss Timmins rose to the occasion, and showed 
herself in an absolutely new light. She brought forward vast 
stores of hidden knowledge, and surprised Cecilia with the 
record of the past, which might help the young wife and 
mother now in the bold experiment she was about to make. 

“Cecilia,” said Miss Timmins, “times change, no doubt, 
but neither in the past nor now could a certain sum of money 
be got to purchase more than a certain supply of goods. 
There is no doubt, my dear, that a thousand pounds will not 
furnish your house as it ought to be furnished. You must 
not dream of going in debt for even sixpence-worth. There 
is nothing whatever for it but to try the window dodge.” 

“What is that?” asked Cecilia, laughing. 

“Well, my love, we did it. It had a most excellent effect, 
and no one ever knew. You are going into a very big house, 
and, after all, you and your husband and your child are not 
very big people. You don’t really want more room than you 
have in that sweet little home in Coxmoor Street. Now, my 
dear, we will do this: We will furnish one room handsomely 
as a waiting room for the doctor’s patients. The large sitting 
room' you describe at the back of the house will, of course, 
be the consulting room. That also must be richly appointed. 
The entrance hall shall be as select as possible in all its 
arrangements, and the stairs leading up to the drawing room 
floor must be richly carpeted. The drawing room for the 
present must remain empty. But it is necessary that the 
kitchen should be furnished, for you must be well fed, 
Cecilia, and so must your child, and, above all things, so 
must your husband. You will get a good cook, and unless 
cooks are changed from what they were in the old days when I 


THE WINDOW DODGE. 


130 


was young, she will not deny herself. Whoever suffers in the 
house, the cook must have saucepans, frying pans, and cup- 
boards and larders to meet her requirements. I should think, 
my dear, that the furniture you now have would be quite suf- 
ficient for your bedroom in the new house, and that with a 
additional outlay Babs’ little room can also be made charming 
for her.” 

“But what about the window dodge?” said Cecilia. 

“I am coming to that, my dear. You are now, Cecilia, 
leaving the House of Truth in Coxmoor Street to come to the 
House of Humbugs in Hartrick Street.” 

“Oh, don’t,” said Cecilia. “I didn’t know you were so 
painfully satirical, Miss Timmins.” 

“My dear, I have had a turn at everything in my time, 
even at satire. Your husband is to pose as a man of wealth; 
he is to appear as a prosperous physician. You must not for- 
get that in Hartrick Street you will have neighbors, that your 
neighbors will have many eyes, and from all those eyes they 
will peer at you, and endeavor by every means in their power 
to pick holes in you. I mean, my dear, that from the windows 
of the opposite houses the barrenness of your house will be 
viewed unless we are very careful. The rooms may remain 
empty, Cecilia, but the windows must be furnished. To every 
window there must be a nice, fresh, clean, fashionable blind; 
behind every window there must hang a pair of curtains. 
Each day your blinds must be raised to a certain level, and 
your curtains must be freshly draped. The neighbors will 
then suppose that the house is fully furnished, and that Dr. 
Digby is a rich man. How can I call the house in Hartrick 
Street anything else but the House of Humbugs?” 

Miss Timmins laughed as she spoke, and Cecilia laughed 
too ; but there was something hollow and forced in the sound 
of her mirth. 

“I don’t know how Laurence will quite bear that,” she ex- 
claimed. 

“ My dear, you really must not worry your husband about 
the furnishing of your house. You and I must do that. If 
ever there was a true man on this earth it is your brave, noble 
husband. There never was a more lucky woman than you. 
In your husband you have got something far more precious 
than gold — far more valuable than fame. O Cecilia, I have 
always loved you since that day, nearly four years *ago now, 
when you came to me so forlorn, so sweet, so full of the best 


140 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


impulses. How glad I was when you told me you were to 
marry that brave, good husband of yours. Since then you 
have changed, my dear; you are still sweet, but you have 
changed. Never mind, I promised not to preach, and I will 
go with you, and be your friend through thick and thin. 
Now to return to the house. We will make a lovely house 
as far as a thousand pounds go, and your good husband must 
not be worried. Suppose we have dinner now, my dear, and 
afterward shall we go and pay Shoolbred a visit?” 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE ROAD TO SUCCESS. 

Miss Timmins was as good as her word. She helped 
Cecilia through all the thick and thin of that house furnish- 
ing. Each day the young woman and the old spent many 
hours together. They went to furnishing shops in each 
other’s company, they compared the value of this carpet and 
of that, of this style of decoration and the other. Miss Tim- 
mins brought out of its grave a taste which had long been 
buried, an eye for the beautiful which no one gave her 
credit for possessing. She knew not only how to make a 
penny produce its utmost value in the money market, but she 
also knew where green would harmonize with drab, and where 
the slightest touch of pink would render the pale blue deco- 
ration of a certain room absolutely bright and charming. 
Cecilia had in reality a more artistic eye than her friend, but 
she had not Miss Timmins’s vast store of old-world experience. 
The two together found themselves fully equal to the business 
of making Digby’s house one of the most attractive in Hart- 
rick Street. 

The doctor knew very little of what was going on ; he saw 
that Cecilia was happy and busy, he knew that Nance was 
well, and he himself was occupied just now during every mo- 
ment of his time ; for the poor people whom he visited deter- 
mined that they would not part with their favorite doctor for 
nothing. In some extraordinary way they each of them 
managed to develop his or her pet malady, andDigby had his 
hands full, although these labors did not materially increase 
the weight of his purse. 

It is an acknowledged fact in the medical profession that 
men who cannot afford to purchase a practice must climb the 


THE ROAD TO SUCCESS. 


141 


ladder of success by slow and painful toil. No matter how 
clever a poor doctor is, it is impossible for him to compete 
with his moneyed brother. The one just steps into the shoes 
of a doctor who has already secured a great number of pa- 
tients ; the other man has to find his patients one by one for 
himself. 

Digby in this case was the other man. When he married 
Cecilia he took the little house in Coxmoor Street, and for 
some time visited the very poor people in his district for noth- 
ing. By degrees one neighbor told another of the doctor 
with the rugged face, the brusque word, the genial smile, and 
the clever diagnosis. They spoke to each other of the cures 
Digby had effected, and so one after another called him in, 
and he made a practice for himself sufficient to keep the little 
house in Coxmoor Street going. 

His practice was valuable enough now to tempt another man 
to purchase it from him for a few hundred pounds. One day 
the doctor told his wife with pride that he had put enough 
money away in the bank to meet the first year’s rent of their 
house in Hartrick Street. 

Cecilia glanced at him eagerly when he said this. After 
a pause, she went up and kissed him. Some words crowded 
to her lips, but she did not utter them. He returned her em- 
brace, looking at her sadly. He often looked sad just now, 
as if he were troubled by a foreboding. 

At last the day came when the Digbys said adieu to the 
humble but happy little home where Nance had first seen the 
light. They went to Hartrick Street, and established them- 
selves there just one month after Helena and her husband had 
returned from their wedding tour. 

Helena rushed in to see her friend the first evening, and ex- 
claimed joyfully at the beauty of the house. 

“ You have more taste than I have, Cecil,” she said. 
“James went over your house with me yesterday, and he was 
particularly struck with the window dodge.” 

“ The window dodge !” exclaimed Digby. “ What do you 
mean, Helena?” 

“Don’t, don’t, Helen,” said Cecilia*, laughing. “I have not 
yet told the doctor of the window dodge. It must be broken 
to him gently. You will scarcely believe me when I tell you 
that Laurence has only visited his consulting room and the 
dining room up to the present.” 

“ Time enough to see all the rest of this great palace by 


142 


TUE MEDICINE LADY. 


and by,” said Digby, with 3, sigh. “ Ileigb-ho ! I suppose 
I shall get used to it in time, but I feel very much like a fish 
out of water at the present moment.” 

Helena, whose pretty face was radiant with happiness, 
looked at Digby as he spoke. 

“I never knew that Cecilia’s husband was so old,” she 
mentally soliloquized. “The hair round his temples was 
always a little gray, now i, is white. And yet what power 
there is in his face, what endurance. Oh, of course, he isn’t 
a bit handsome, but I do like to look at him. If I were ill it 
would comfort me were he to prescribe for me.” 

Helen and Cecilia talked idle nothings together for nearly 
an hour, then Phillips came in to fetch his wife, and also to 
criticise the new arrangements. 

“I am thoroughly delighted,” he said, in a cordial tone. 
“You will never regret this step, Digby, old man.” 

Digby winced when Phillips addressed him as old man. He 
did not care to be on terms of intimacy with Helena’s hus- 
band, and yet it was difficult for him to reject advances made 
for some reason or other in a thoroughly cordial spirit. 

“You will have more patients than you know how to man- 
age by this time next year, Digby,” pursued Phillips, “but, 
now you have begun, you must go on to the end properly. 
What about your carriage — have you ordered it yet?” 

“Certainly not,” replied Digby ; “I have not the least in- 
tention of burdening myself with the expense of a carriage.” 

“But you must go to see your patients in a brougham.” 

“At present I have no patients to see.” 

“You will have some to-morrow. Sir Probyn Sharpe was 
speaking to me this afternoon. He said his daughter was 
consumptive. I told him that the treatment of consumption 
was your special hobby, and he intends to ask Lady Sharpe 
to bring the girl round to see you to-morrow. She will do 
for number one. I have some other friends to whom I shall 
mention you as a specialist.” 

“But I am not a specialist,” replied Digby. 

“ My dear fellow, then I shall speak of you as a right good, 
clever, rather eccentric, sort of man. Women love eccentric 
doctors. Leave the matter to me.” 

“It is lovely of you to be so kind,” said Cecilia suddenly. 
Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed ; she looked so radiant, 
so beautiful that Phillips could not help bestowing upon her 
a broad stare of admiration. 


TUE ROAD TO SUCCESS. 


143 


“By Jove!” he said under his breath. “DoesDigby know 
what a beautiful woman that slim little probationer of three 
years ago has become?” 

Digby saw Phillips’s glance; he frowned — felt within him- 
self that he could not possibly be cordial, and, rising from the 
table with a word of apology, withdrew into the consulting 
room. 

“James,” said Helen, when the door closed behind Digby, 
“you must please to understand that Cecilia’s husband must 
be caught by guile. Don’t tell him what you are doing for 
him, only do it.” 

“I shall certainly have the greatest pleasure in helping 
Digby by every means in my power,” responded Phillips. 
“ I feel to a certain extent responsible for him, as I urged him 
to take this step. But, Mrs. Digby, it is absolutely necessary 
that your husband should start a carriage. If he is afraid of 
the expense just at first, let him hire a brougham at one of 
the livery stables near. He must have a brougham, no matter 
how plain. Then, have you thought of a man to open the door 
for the patients? A man looks ever so much better than a 
maidservant.” 

“I know Laurence will not go to that expense,” replied 
Cecilia, her pretty brows contracting with anxiety. 

“Dear me, James! Is not a carriage enough for poor Cecil 
to think over the first evening of her arrival here?” asked his 
wife. 

“No, my dear, no. Everything must be put on a proper 
footing at once. You have taken a bold step, Mrs. Digby, 
and success mainly depends on your not faltering now at the 
critical juncture. Your husband must have his carriage and 
his manservant. Let me see — why should you worry a man 
like that about such trifles? I can order the carriage for you, 
and I believe that I can get you a servant to come for a few 
hours every morning at quite a small rate of wage. Lady 
Sharpe will most likely bring her daughter to-morrow, and it 
would certainly be advisable that a man accustomed to the 
sort of thing should open the door.” 

“ We cannot have a man by to-morrow,” said Cecilia, frown- 
ing. 

“Won’t you leave it to James and me, Cecil?” exclaimed 
Helena. 

“No, no,” said Cecilia. “Laurence commissioned me to 
furnish the house for him. We had a little money left us, 


144 


THE MEDICINE LADY . 


and we spent it on the furnishing, but if I were to order a 
carriage for him, and to hire a manservant, he would naturally 
be very angry. It cannot be done.” 

“Forgive me, Mrs. Digby,” exclaimed Phillips; “we are 
going to be near neighbors. My wife cares more for you 
than for any other woman in existence — had we not better 
establish a friendly footing without delay? Helen will tell 
you of her difficulties — why should you not confide in Helen, 
and, if necessary, in Helen’s husband? I may as well say at 
once that I am a thorough man of the world. We all know 
that Digby is not a man of the world, and yet for his own 
sake, for the sake of the profession, for your sake and your 
child’s, we want to push him into a position which he 
scarcely cares to occupy. He must not be worried by details. 
His mind is occupied with great problems, and to harass it 
with such subjects as the petty expenditure of money neces- 
sary for everyday life would be cruel. Now, the long and 
short of this preamble is — have you any money in the bank?” 

“ I believe Laurence has put by a year’s rent. He got a 
small sum for the little practice he made while in Coxmoor 
Street, and I also think there is about a hundred pounds left 
after paying the furnishing bills.” 

Phillips’s brow cleared. 

“So far, so good,” he said. “Helen, come home with me 
now : I have a plan to discuss with you. Mrs. Digby, my 
wife will pay you a visit early to-morrow morning.” 

The result of Phillips’s conference with his young wife pro- 
claimed itself in a very practical manner on the following 
day. 

Helena told Cecilia that her husband knew the master of 
some livery stables who would supply the Digbys with a neat 
brougham, nice horse, and man in livery, who would appear 
at one o’clock every day at No. 48 Hartrick Street. 

“What for?” asked Cecilia, in amazement. 

“Because,” said Helena gravely, “your husband must be 
seen at that hour every day going the round of his patients. 
The neighbors must see him doing this. James says that is 
essential.” 

“O Helen, Helen!” exclaimed Cecilia, suddenly bursting 
into tears, “Miss Timmins was right when she called this 
the House of Humbugs.” 

“Don’t cry,” said Helen, in a pained voice. “James says 
there is nothing in all this, it is simply one of the roads to 


THE ROAD TO SUCCESS. 


145 


success. Your husband will have real patients to visit in a 
fortnight or a month from now.” 

“Then who is to pay for the brougham?” exclaimed Cecilia. 
“ The little money we have in the bank ought to be kept for 
housekeeping expenses and rent. I thought the matter all 
over last night, and I saw clearly that it would be very wrong 
to touch the money in the bank until Laurence has paying 
patients who will bring him in a good income; we must keep 
something to buy bread and butter with.” 

“You poor Cecil,” exclaimed her friend, “you ought to 
have mamma’s turn for management. You can’t imagine how 
far she makes a thousand pounds go in a year.” 

“But we have not a thousand pounds,” replied Cecilia. 
“At the present moment we have scarcely any money to 
spend, for Laurence has quite made up his mind that the 
year’s rent is not to be touched on any account whatever.” 

“Well, what about the carriage?” 

“Is the carriage necessary?” 

“ My dear, it is indispensable. James knows ; he would not 
take all this trouble for your husband if he was not absolutely 
certain about the necessity of what he is doing. The carriage 
shall not cost you much, Cecil.” 

“IIow much?” continued Cecilia. 

“That is just it. You are not going to be angry; you 
must just listen to my scheme. You must know that James 
and I were very anxious to give you a little present to help 
your house furnishing. We had always made up our minds 
to do this, for you cannot forget that you are my cousin and 
my dearest friend. We were quite distressed when we went 
over your house and saw how cleverly you had done it up. 
James said, ‘There is absolutely not a single thing they want. 
The rooms on the ground floor are irreproachable, and those 
cleverly decorated windows upstairs reveal nothing of the 
skeleton behind. What are we to do?’ 

“Those were my husband’s words,” pursued Mrs. Phillips. 
“Then when we came home last night he said to me, ‘Suppose 
we pay for Cecilia’s carriage’ (we always speak of it you 
know, darling, as your carriage), ‘for the first three months.’ 
James said that your husband would probably make no in- 
quiries about it; he would be satisfied if you told him that 
the money part of the matter was all right. Do, do let us 
give you your carriage for three months, Cecil, just as a little 
private gift from James and me. James says that long before 


146 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


the three months are up I)r. Digfoy will he able to pay the 
expense of his own brougham.” 

“I must think,” said Cecilia, “I must think it over. You 
are kind, you tempt me, but is it necessary for me to keep 
this thing from Laurence?” 

“Dear Cecil,” replied Helen, “that rests with yourself . If 
your husband does not object to our gift, by all means tell him. 
If he does object, please, please, for the sake of the future, 
keep the knowledge to yourself.” 

“ But that would be doing wrong,” said Cecilia. “ Oh, I am 
tempted, but I hate doing wrong. Dear little Helen, I did 
not think you would be the one to tempt me.” 

Helen raised her brown eyes, and looked full at her 
cousin. 

“I will not tempt you any more,” she said suddenly. “I 
will leave it to your own judgment. James says that it isn’t 
absolutely necessary that the brougham should appear at your 
door this afternoon, as the neighbors will know that you have 
only just arrived — but to-morrow! You have only just to 
send me a line, Cecil, or, better still, run in to see me, and the 
brougham, beautifully appointed, will stand before your door 
between one and two o’clock.” 

“Go away now,” said Cecilia, turning white. “You make 
me feel almost wild ; my heart beats too fast ; Laurence will 
say that I am feverish. What possible excuse can I make to 
account for that brougham? That brougham has already 
assumed the guise of a nightmare. O Helen, I am grateful 
to you, and to — to James, but the House of Humbugs is al- 
ready taking the life out of my soul.” 

“I do not understand you,” replied Helen. “You seem to 
me to be something like a shuttlecock. You are anxious for 
your husband to succeed, and then you almost reject the help 
that your friends try to give you.” 

“Do not be angry with me.” 

“Ho, no, I cannot be that.” 

“Your heart has never been torn like mine.” 

“I suppose not; I feel very happy.” 

Cecilia accompanied her cousin to the door. Just as Helen 
was leaving the house she turned suddenly round. 

“I was nearly forgetting,” she said: “we have found a de- 
lightful man who has something to do in the Post Office. He 
helps to carry round letters in the afternoon. He is a sort 
of supernumerary, and can come to you in livery for three 


THE PARLOR MAID AT FORTY-EIGHT. 


147 


hours every morning. You need only pay him ten shillings a 
week, and he won’t require any food.” 

Cecilia held up her hands. 

“ Ten shillings a week !” she exclaimed. “ How are we to 
find that?” 

Helen could not help laughing. 

“My dear,” she remarked, “James says he never heard of 
anyone so cheap in his life. O Cecil! what a job it will be 
to drag you and your husband up the steep hill of success 
which leads to wealth and fame.” 

Helen went back to her own home, and Cecilia shut the hall 
door and returned to her beautiful dining room. Her little 
child was sitting on the floor. She lifted her pretty face to 
her mother’s for a kiss. Nance was not elated by the new 
house. The shabby parlor in Coxmoor Street suited her 
bricks better than the grand new dining room in Hartrick 
Street. The new floor was highly polished, and the bricks 
would tumble down, missing the friendly support of the old 
drugget in the other home. 

“Naughty b’icks, Nan hates you!” exclaimed the child. 
“Nan not p’ay any more.” 

She ran up to her mother, who took her up in her arms and 
kissed her. 

“Does Nance like the new house?” asked Cecilia. 

“No,” answered the child, “noo house not pitty.” Then 
she put her arms tightly round her mother’s neck. “Take 
Nan back to old house,” she asked, in a piteous voice. 

Cecilia pressed the little creature to her heart. 

“ The House of Truth suits you and father better than this 
house, Nance,” she said, in a smothered voice of pain. 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE PARLOR MAID AT FORTY-EIGHT. 

It was the beginning of October when the Digbys found 
themselves in their new house. It was not the height of the 
season, but neither was it exactly a dull time. The holiday- 
makers were coming back to town, the public schools had re- 
ceived their pupils back again, and there was a general stir 
and movement in the streets which had been so empty and de- 
serted a short time ago. 

The weather was lovely just now. There was a [freshness. 


148 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


clearness, and crispness in the atmosphere which were most 
exhilarating. Cecilia’s new house had no dust anywhere; 
the furniture looked spick and span, the tiled hall was 
wide and handsome, and the light streamed down in rich 
bars of color from the painted window on the first land- 
ing. 

Cecilia’s heart was beating quickly. This was the first 
morning of her great venture. Right or wrong, the deed 
was now done which separated her and hers from mediocrity 
and Coxmoor Street. Helen had roused some latent qualms 
of conscience when she made her proposals about the brougham, 
but that subject might wait for future consideration; the 
present great necessity was to get ready for the expected 
visit of Lady Sharpe. 

No man in livery- could open the door that morning. 
Cecilia was a perfect novice in the ways of society. She had 
taken a big house, but she had no staff of servants at her com- 
mand. Sally Jenkins, the maid of all work in Coxmoor 
Street, was now promoted to the post of cook in Hartrick 
Street. Nance had her own special, devoted nurse, who was 
generally known by the affectionate title of Henny-Penny. 
Henny-Penny was an excellent sort of girl, but she was short 
and dumpy in figure, and had never worn a cap in her life. 
Sally Jenkins was also the reverse of presentable as a hall 
porter. 

Cecilia felt quite staggered when she reflected on Lady 
Sharpe’s feelings when either Henny-Penny or Sally Jenkins 
opened the door for her. 

“She may go away again,” reflected Mrs. Digby in horror. 
“There is no saying what effect Henny-Penny may have on 
her; she may fancy that Dr. Phillips gave her the wrong ad- 
dress. Oh, how dreadful, how perfectly dreadful, if poor 
Henny-Penny is to be the means of ruining Laurence’s future 
prospects.” 

Cecilia reflected for a few moments ; then she came to a 
sudden resolve. 

“I’ll do it,” she said to herself . “No one need ever know. 
I’ll watch behind the blind in the empty drawing room, and 
when Lady Sharpe’s carriage drives up I’ll open the door my- 
self. I must go out now immediately and order something 
for dinner; I can buy a neat parlor maid’s cap and apron at 
the same time. I expect I shall make a rather pretty parlor 
maid, and Lady Sharpe need never know. First of all, how- 


THE PARLOR MAID AT FORTY-EIGHT. 


149 


ever, I must go and remind Laurence that a patient is com- 
ing to see him.” 

Cecilia tripped away to her husband’s consulting room. 
He was having a thoroughly happy morning putting drawers 
to rights and turning over piles of papers and books. He was 
in an old tweed suit very much the worse for wear; his 
grizzled locks were standing up high on his forehead. 

“O Laurence!” exclaimed his wife, “you are not going 
to see Lady Sharpe in that coat?” 

“Has she come, my dear?” asked Digby. “Don’t stand 
there please, Cecilia; there are some dried crabs in that 
parcel, and you may crush them.” 

“Oh, dear, dear! Laurence, you ought to put all these 
messy things away. Lady Sharpe will think the room looks 
so odd.” 

“Is she in the dining room? I can see her there.” 

“No, no; she hasn’t come at all yet.” 

“Then what are you fussing over?” 

“You ought to be ready. You ought to have your nice 
black professional coat on, and the room ought to be tidy, 
not in this awful litter. Dear Laurence, you must really tidy 
both yourself and the room.” 

“And sit with my hands folded before me, waiting for this 
grand Lady something or other? No, thank you. Look here, 
my dear wife, you can never convert me into a sleek counter- 
part of James Phillips. Do you want to try?” 

“No, Laurence; no, no!” 

“I must go my own way; and my patients must take me 
as they find me. If any people do happen to call to see me 
this morning, which I much doubt, I shall receive them in 
my old tweed suit, and they will see the unknown East End 
doctor busy sorting his specimens, and putting them in order; 
for, whatever else happens, Cecilia, however the old order 
may change, you will never convert me into a sham. Now 
run away, my dear, for I happen to be very busy.” 

“ How will he bear it when he hears about the brougham?” 
thought Cecilia as she left the room. 

She stood for a moment in the passage to think; then she 
ran up to her own luxurious bedroom, and putting on her hat 
and jacket, slung a small basket over her arm, and running 
downstairs let herself out. 

Cecilia was probably the first lady who had lived at 48 
Hartrick Street who deliberately went out to do her own mar- 


150 


THE MEDICINE LAD Y 


keting. She turned into a side street, made the necessary 
purchases for the house, then entering a small draper’s shop 
bought a cheap and pretty housemaid’s cap and a neat apron. 
She returned home with her purchases, let herself into the 
house with her latchkey, and ran down to Sally Jenkins, who 
was overpowered with the grandeur of her new position as 
queen of the kitchen department. Sally was inclined to have 
a long, confidential talk with Mrs. Digby, but Cecilia had no 
time to listen to her. 

“ There, Sally, you can’t possibly want anything more for 
to-day!” she exclaimed, laying her different packages on the 
table. “There is meat for a nice hash, and vegetables to put 
with it, and here are eggs, and — and — oh, you can open all 
the other parcels by yourself, Sally. Put your wits to work, 
and give us a nice little dinner. What is that you say about 
late dinner as well? No, not at present. I will think about 
that later on. Now, I can’t stay a moment. I am much 
pressed for time.” 

She ran up to her own room, peeped into the nursery as she 
passed, and saw that Henny-Penny was putting on little 
Nance’s outdoor things to take her for a walk. 

“That is right!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “You are not 
far from Regent’s Park here, Henny. Take Miss Nance 
there, and give her a good blow.” 

Then Cecilia locked herself into her bedroom; she was 
trembling slightly, for she felt that she was about to do a 
daring thing. She opened one of her drawers and took from 
it a neat but plain print dress. This she put on, fastening a 
linen collar at her throat, and slipping linen cuffs up her arms. 
She looked at her hands for a moment with a slight grimace. 
Her beautiful hands did not look like those that could belong 
to even the most refined parlor maid. There was no help 
for this difficulty, however; she could only hope that Lady 
Sharpe would be too absorbed by her own anxieties to notice 
her white hands. She smoothed back her bright hair, damp- 
ing it to take some of the waviness out ; her cap and apron 
were quickly put on, and she stood before her long glass and 
courtesied to herself. 

“ Upon my word, Cecilia, you make an admirable and even 
a pretty parlor maid. Now then, how ought I to show the 
grand lady in? I think I can guess. Let me see — ought 
there not to be a slate in the hall to take down orders? I am 


THE PARLOR MAID AT FORTY-EIGHT. 


151 


almost sure of it, but perhaps as we have only just arrived, 
Lady Sharpe will overlook the slate this morning.” 

Cecilia now ran down to the dining room. Her husband 
was busy in his consulting room. Henny-Penny and Nance 
were out, Sally would not dream of leaving her kitchen, un- 
called for. Cecilia hoped that Lady Sharpe would come [and 
go without anyone finding out the metamorphosis she had un- 
dergone. 

She waited in the dining room for the greater part of an 
hour. Then her labors were rewarded, for a landau, drawn 
by a pair of grays, stopped at Dr. Digby’s door, and a foot- 
man in livery ran up the steps and sounded a peal through the 
partly empty house. Cecilia felt her color coming and going. 

“Now then,” she said to herself; “oh, the plunge is noth- 
ing after the first moment; it is only the first step that costs 
so much.” 

She flung the hall door open, and stood there, erect, pale, 
and calm. The footman made the necessary inquiries, and 
Lady Sharpe, a middle-aged woman of ample proportions, 
handsomely dressed, entered the house. She was followed by 
a slim and beautiful girl of about fifteen. The girl’s face was 
radiant. A soft rose color mantled her cheeks, the whiteness 
of her brow and of all the rest of her face resembled milk. 

Cecilia ushered the two into the dining room, closed the 
door softly behind them, and then went to tell her husband. 
She knocked at his door, but did not go in. 

“Laurence, Lady Sharpe has called, and wishes to see you. 
Shall I ask her to come to your consulting room?” 

“Yes, please,” he called back, and Cecilia flew away. 

“Will you come this way, madam?” she said. She tripped 
on before her husband’s patients down the long passage, and, 
throwing open Digby’s door, stood in the shadow herself. 

He came forward to greet his visitors, and Cecilia gave a 
sigh of relief, for she was able, confidently, to affirm that his 
eyes had never for a moment rested on her. She returned to 
her post of observation in the dining room, and waited the 
issue of events. Ten, twelve, fifteen minutes went by, the 
consulting-room bell was heard to ring, and Cecilia ran to 
answer it. 

“ Whatever Laurence may feel, he won’t betray me before 
Lady Sharpe,” she said to herself. The consulting-room door 
was open, and Digby was standing there. 


152 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“Will you take this young lady to the diningroom,” life 
said. Then his eye fell on Cecilia. He started violently, 
and a queer look convulsed his face. Cecilia felt herself 
shaking from head to foot. She turned, led the way, and the 
beautiful, frail girl followed her. 

Digby pressed his hand to his heart. The change on his 
face was so marked that Lady Sharpe, an astute woman, 
noticed it. 

“Forgive me, Dr. Digby,” she said, “you are ill.” 

“No,” he replied, “but something suddenly startled me — 
it was of a domestic nature. I am sorry my face betrayed the 
emotion which my patients ought not to be worried with. 
Will you come and sit in this chair, Lady Sharpe?” 

The doctor’s self-possession quickly returned to him. 
Something else, however, oppressed him, and the sadness lying 
deep at his heart was reflected, in spite of himself, in his 
words. 

“I want your truthful opinion,” Lady Sharpe said. “You 
have made a careful examination of my daughter’s lungs. Is 
it true that her left lung is slightly affected?” 

“I am sorry to say that it is true,” replied Digby; “the 
mischief is not very great at present, but she has unquestion- 
ably tubercular disease of the left lung.” 

Lady Sharpe drew up her veil. She had a fan in her Iu : ,*id; 
she opened it and slightly fanned her heated face. 

“You will forgive me,” she said. “Dorothy is the last 
child I have left. Once I was the ^mother of four beautiful 
children, but three of them died almost in their infancy. 
Dorothy has lived to grow up ; I had earnestly hoped that she 
would be spared to me.” 

Digby said nothing, but the trouble in his heart filled his 
eyes. lie looked at Lady Sharpe, and then away from 
her. % 

“ What did your three children die of?” he said, after a very 
long pause. 

“ The eldest had a long illness, spinal disease followed by 
terrible abscesses; she gradually wasted away; the two 
younger ones were delicate from birth.” 

“Oh, it all springs from the same root,” replied Digby. 
“ Has your daughter been strong up to the present?” 

“Yes, she has always from her birth been a radiant sort of 
creature. Brilliant is the best word by which to describe her. 
From her earliest days she never did anything in the common 


THE PARLOR MAID AT FORTY-EIGHT. 


153 


way — she was always original ; intensely lovely, gay, and full 
of spirits. I never remember her complaining of ache or pain. 
She seemed the essence of health, both in mind and body; 
only just a little bit too original, and now and then a shade 
too lovely. Last winter she had a cough which came from a 
cold. We took fright at once, and went to Mentone. She 
got quite well there, and we came back. During the last 
month I noticed that she now and then pressed her hand to 
her side, coughed a very little at night, and seemed tired for 
no adequate reason. Dr. jPhillips is an old friend of our 
family. He came to see me, and I spoke to him about 
Dorothy. He said that if any man could cure her, you could. 
He did not exactly say it in words, but he gave me distinctly 
to understand, Dr. Digby, that it was in your power to treat 

con ” Lady Sharpe cleared her throat — the next word 

came out with an effort — “consumption, that awful and ter- 
rible foe, in a new way. In short, he set my heart beating, 
for he gave me to hope, to hope strongly , that you had dis- 
covered an antidote for this fearful foe. Is it true? Can 
you cure Dorothy?” 

“You give me great pain,” said Digby, in a low voice. 
“Sitting here in this room, I could, if I pleased send you 
home buoyed up with false hopes. I should be a very un- 
faithful physician if I did so. Phillips had no right to hint 
to you about a possible cure.” 

“Is there none? Is it a mistake?” Lady Sharpe clasped 
her white hands, and the look on her eager face was piteous. 

“It is an absolute mistake,” replied Digby solemnly. “I 
have discovered no cure for consumption. I would give my 
life — yes, my life — to find it; but this supreme knowledge, 
this greatest gift that could be put into the hands of any 
doctor, has not yet been vouchsafed to me.” 

“ Then you are searching for it?” 

“ That is true ; but the wisdom to discover, and then to 
perfect the discovery, is not mine at present.” 

“I was deceived,” said Lady Sharpe. “I spent the night 
full of hope. All the way here I kept saying to myself, 
‘Dorothy will be spared, that cough will cease, she will grow 
strong, that ethereal loveliness, which tortures me through its 
very beauty, will disappear from her face.” 

“Never,” said Digby, rising. “Your daughter will never 
be like other girls. You are a wealthy woman, and it is pos- 
sible for you to take steps which may for a very long time 


154 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


arrest the disease. Your daughter must not spend a winter 
in England.” 

“No, no, but Mentone did not cure her. We were quite 
.sure that taking her there at such an early stage would work 
wonders. Do you advise me to take her to Mentone again 
this winter, Dr. Digby?” 

“ I do not think so — she is too excitable. The air of the 
Mediterranean tends to increase that kind of unrest from 
which Miss Sharpe suffers. I should prefer the cold and dry 
air of the Engadine for her. I must ask you, however, Lady 
Sharpe, to consult your own family physician. You have 
come to me under a mistake, imagining that I could give you 
what, alas! is not in my power to bestow. It would be 
wisest for you to speak to your own doctor.” 

“If you prefer it,” said Lady Sharpe. She rose; there was 
a faint stiffness in her manner. 

“Dr. Phillips certainly gave me a false impression,” she 
remarked. 

“I will speak to Phillips,” said Digby. “This kind of 
thing must not occur again. No, Lady Sharpe, I cannot 
possibly accept a fee. You came to me under a false impres- 
sion.” 

“You have been very honest with me, Dr. Digby, and 
I thank you. You are not the magician I fondly hoped you 
were, but you are a very good man. Please let me acknowl- 
edge your services in the usual way.” 

Digby bowed, but the two guineas which Lady Sharpe 
slipped into his hand seemed to burn it. He followed her to 
the door, and saw her and her daughter out himself. 

CHAPTER TO 

THE DOCTOR’S CARRIAGE. 

On that same evening Digby rang the bell of No. 47. Lights 
were shining in the drawing-room windows, and gay streams 
of brightness shone out from the polished fanlight and fell 
across the street. Sounds of music were heard issuing from 
the drawing room, and Digby guessed that the Phillipses 
were entertaining friends. This fact, however, did not deter 
him from his purpose. 

“Is Dr. Phillips at home?” he asked of the irreproachable 
footman who opened the door. 


THE DOCTOR'S CARRIAGE. 


155 


Digby still wore his tweed suit, and a soft hat of thoroughly 
unprofessional aspect partly concealed his features. The man 
did not know him, and spoke in a tone of pardonable resent- 
ment. 

“Dr. Phillips is at home,” he said, “but he is particularly 
engaged just now. We have company upstairs this evening. 
If you are a patient, my master sees them from ten to one 
every morning.” 

“ Say to your master that Dr. Digby wishes to have a word 
or two with him. Say that I won’t keep him more than a 
moment or two,” replied Digby. 

The man, mortified at the mistake he had made, was now 
profuse in his apologies. He ushered Digby into Phillips’s 
consulting room, a beautifully furnished apartment, with fold- 
ing doors leading into an inner sanctum, and with all the ar- 
rangements which a doctor of the highest qualifications would 
require for interviewing his patients. The man closed the 
door softly behind him, and Digby threw his hat on the table. 
A moment later Phillips, in evening dress, came in. 

“Don’t apologize, my dear fellow,” he began. “I am de- 
lighted to see you. The Lancasters are upstairs and two or 
three other friends of Helen’s. We meant to ask you and 
your wife to join us, but Helen was quite alarmed at Mrs. 
Digby’s pale face this morning, and proposed instead that 
you should come in quietly and dine with us to-morrow even- 
ing.” 

“Thanks,” said Digby, in a brief voice. “I shan’t keep 
you a moment now, Phillips. I have just come to say that 
you must never do it again.” 

“Do what?” asked Phillips, raising his brows. “Sit 
down, Digby, join me in a pipe. I can quite well spare half 
an hour from the folk in the drawing room.” 

“I can’t stay, Phillips. I am on my way to Coxmoor 
Street. I have promised for the present to help Hay, the 
man who has bought my practice, with some of his more com- 
plicated cases. You know to what I allude; you must 
promise me that it will never occur again.” 

“You must explain yourself more fully,” said Phillips, a 
slight tinge of stiffness coming into his voice. “ What am 
I never to do again?” 

“You must never again tell people that I possess a cure for 
consumption. Lady Sharpe came to me to-day with a false 
impression of my powers. She attributed almost divine at- 


156 


THE MEDICINE LADT. 


tributes to me. I am a most human and faulty and, in many 
cases, unlearned man. Of course, I undeceived her, but the 
process was painful, and I don’t choose to have it repeated.” 

Phillips walked across the room, raised his hand to the 
gaselier, and turned a blaze of gas full on. The light fell on 
Digby’s figure : it lit up all the lines of his somewhat hollow 
face, and revealed marks of care round his mouth and eyes. 

“Is it true, then,” said Phillips slowly, “that you have not 
discovered a cure for consumption?” 

“ I have not discovered a cure. Do you suppose for an in- 
stant that if I had I should keep it to myself? May I ask, 
Phillips, how, when, and where such a rumor reached you?” 

“ It is impossible,” said Phillips, rubbing his hands slowly 
together, “ to trace rumor to her source. The fact that you 
were scientific, especially scientific, was whispered at St. 
Christopher’s. Then someone spoke of you in connection 
with the germ theory. When Eden Browne died, some of 
my friends said to me, ‘There is only one man who can step 
into his shoes — that man is Laurence Digby.’ It is certainly 
understood by more than one in our profession that you hold 
in your hands the threads of a valuable discovery : more than 
that I cannot say. It remains with you to win fame by it. 
Eden Browne had some notions, but he died before perfecting 
them. He died in your house. It is for you now to step into 
his shoes. They are empty and waiting for you to fill.” 

“And do you think,” said Digby, his eyes blazing, “that 
I would make use of such a discovery, suppose I possessed it, 
for mere fame? Faugh! Phillips, I will be frank with you: 
your sentiments disgust me.” With two or three strides 
Digby walked to the other end of the room, then he turned 
and faced his host. 

“ I have not discovered a cure for consumption,” he said. 
“If you urged me to come to Hartrick Street imagining that 
I had in me the materials of a great specialist, you were,under 
a huge mistake. God knows I have done wrong to come. I 
have taken a false step — I am out of place here.” 

Phillips had turned very white during part of Digby’s 
speech, but he had a great deal of self-control, and he quickly 
assumed his usual manner. “You are excited, Digby,” he 
said. “You have spoken to me just now as — as an old friend 
ought scarcely to speak, but we will letbygones be bygones.” 

“Whoever said that we were friends?” retorted Digby. 
“Your wife and mine are friends; we are acquaintances, 


THE DOCTORS CARRIAGE. 


157 


good companions when we meet — but friends ! Phillips, if I 
am anything I am an honest man; nothing will ever induce me 
to be a humbug. Own to me frankly, did you like me when 
we were at St. Christopher’s? — do you like me now?” 

A smile played for a moment round Phillips’s mouth, then 
he said slowly : 

“You are the essence of candor. I will retort in a like 
spirit. While at St. Christopher’s I hated you, Digby.” 

“Thank you,” replied Digby; “an honest and true word, 
such as you have now spoken, covers a multitude of sins.” 

“But,” continued Phillips, speaking with apparent impulse, 
“it remains with you whether I am to continue to hate you. 
I will say something else: I have a respect for you. There 
is no man in the whole medical profession whom I more thor- 
oughly respect. My wife has a regard for your wife. We 
are next-door neighbors. What is to prevent our being 
friends?” 

“Nothing,” said Digby, “nothing, only our ways are 
different. We must each go our own way — I mine, you 
yours. You must not again send me patients under false pre- 
tenses, Phillips.” 

“ No, ” replied Phillips, “ I will say nothing more about your 
cure for consumption. It is your pleasure not to confide in 
me. But I frankly tell you that I believe you have got the 
germs of a great discovery in your keeping, and I tell you as 
frankly that I think you are doing wrong, I think you are 
acting cruelly to the suffering world, to conceal that knowl- 
edge; but that is an affair to settle between your conscience 
and yourself. As to patients coming to see you, you cannot 
prevent me now and then speaking of you as my kind, honest, 
eccentric friend. There are women, many women, who 
would travel far to visit an eccentric doctor.” 

“You had better say nothing about me,” began Digby, but 
Phillips interrupted him. 

“No, you are wrong there,” he said, “I am likely to have 
a large practice. There are many cases that I cannot possibly 
treat — cases that you can most honestly benefit. Digby, I 
will own one bitter truth to you: I wish, yes I wish that I 
was half as clever a physician as you are.” 

“You can study,” said Digby. “In matters of research 
I will give you all the aid in my power.” 

“Thank you, thank you; I can keep up a splendid practice 
without any extra study. I have not sown seed to any great 


158 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


extent, and yet it lies in my power to reap a very fine harvest. 
You, Digby, have sown seed and watered it with the tears of 
toil, of wakeful nights, and anxious hours. Do you not want 
that seed to bear fruit?” 

“ It will bear the best fruit when the Almighty wills it,” 
replied Digby, with reverence. 

“Pshaw,” responded the other man. “The Almighty 
clearly intends us to use the means put in our way. It so 
happens that I am the man to bring patients to your door, 
and I think you will behave in a very brutal manner to your 
pretty wife and to your child if you allow them to starve be- 
cause of some farfetched, quixotic idea that you would rather 
not be *spoken of to people as a clever and painstaking 
physician.” 

“True,” said Digby, “true.” He stood silent for some 
little time; Phillips looked toward the door; he could get 
nothing further out of Digby for the present, and he was im- 
patient to return to his guests. 

Digby, lost in his anxious thoughts, had forgotten all about 
Phillips’s visitors. 

“You will let me do' what I can for you,” said Phillips, 
“and now pardon me; if you will not join us upstairs — and I 
do not expect you would care to do this — I fear I must return 
to Helen and her guests.” 

Digby snatched up his hat. “Forgive me,” he said, “for 
being thoughtless. Well, Phillips, you must do as you think 
right, but remember my terms. No whisper about a cure for 
consumption or anything else. If you like to say that a poor, 
eccentric, half mad doctor has come to forty-eight, in the 
hopes of securing patients, you are welcome to do so for the 
sake of my wife and child. I have no right to forbid that. 
Only speak of me as I am, Phillips, as a man who thinks more 
of truth than fame, and before God, I can also say, who loves 
honor before money. Now, good-night, good-night.” 

Phillips held out his hand. Digby grasped it with a force 
which hurt the younger and slighter man, and rushed out of 
the house. 

Phillips stood for a moment or two alone in his consulting 
room. He turned down the gas, pushed a chair which Digby 
had moved out of its place into its original position, looked 
round once more to remove all traces of disorder, and then 
went slowly up to the drawing room. 

A goodly company were assembled there. Not only the 


THE DOCTORS CARRIAGE. 


159 


Lancasters, but some friends of Phillips’s and one or two ac- 
quaintances who could not yet be classed in the category of 
friends. 

“ What kept you, James?” asked his wife. She skimmed 
lightly across the room, and laid her dimpled hand for a mo- 
ment on his arm. 

“ Only our mad doctor next door,” he replied, in a playful 
tone. 

“Oh,” asked Helena, “is anything wrong with Cecil?” 

“Nothing, nothing. My dear, we must introduce Higby 
to some of our friends. That man is the m6st appallingly 
clever, most pathetically truthful, creature I have ever come 
across.” 

“Whom do you mean, Hr. Phillips?” asked Mrs. Barchester, 
a very rich woman, who had lately called Phillips in as her 
family physician. 

“I was speaking of Digby,” he replied, “a man who has 
just taken forty-eight, poor Eden Browne’s house.” 

“What?” retorted Mrs. Barchester, “the house of the con- 
sumption specialist, who went mad, they say, before he died?” 

“They say a great many things that are not true,” replied 
Phillips. “Well, Higby has always made consumption 
his study.” 

“Has he bought a practice here?” asked Mrs. Barchester. 

“He has not,” replied Phillips, “because he doesn’t need 
to. He is certain to have more patients than he can well at- 
tend to before long. There is no man in the profession whom 
I would rather consult.” 

“He has a very good friend in you,” replied Mrs. Bar- 
chester. 

“You mistake me,” said Phillips; “we are not, even in the 
ordinary sense of the word, friends. At St. Christopher’s, 
where we both studied, we were diametrically opposed in our 
views, but I respect Higby as I respect few other men.” 

Then he laughed, and bent his handsome head slightly nearer 
to the good lady’s. 

“Shall I whisper a secret to you?” he said. “Please don’t 
breathe a word of it to a soul. I think Higby so clever that 
I am absolutely jealous of him. Of course, as to manners he 
is a bear. He will probably receive his patients in an old 
shooting coat, but, whatever else they get from him, they will 
certainly get the truth; for accurate diagnosis and plain 
speaking recommend me to Higby.” 


160 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Phillips moved away to speak to another guest, and Mrs. 
Barchester, having promised secrecy, revealed everything 
straight away to the neighbor who sat on the sofa by her side. 

Digby received the beginning of his reputation at that 
small dinner party. An eccentric, bearish, truthful doctor, of 
rare ability, had come to live in poor Eden Browne’s house. 
Would he not be just the man for Lady Newton, with her 
fads and her hysterics, to consult? Would he not be the 
right person for Sir Henry Spence to get a candid opinion 
from? etc., etc., etc. 

The ball which was to bring reputation and all the other 
things in its train to Digby’s feet was set rolling that night. 
What was Phillips’s motive for so [substantially helping a 
man who was not even his friend? 

Digby went back to his wife, and said a few words to her. 

“My darling,” he said, “you must never do what you did 
this morning again. I promised to say nothing more to you 
of my feelings against coming to this house when the die was 
cast. I shall keep that promise to the end, Cecilia; but when 
I saw you in your servant’s cap and apron to-day you nearly 
broke my heart.” 

Tears sprang to Cecilia’s eyes. “Did you not read my 
motive?” she said. “It was love for you, earnest, passionate 
desire that you should succeed.” 

“Let me look you full in the face,” retorted Digby. “You 
call what you did to-day love for me. Was it in reality love 
for a man who puts truth before all things in this world? 
My dear wife, my dearest friend, was it not rather love of 
ambition, love of riches? O Cecilia, God help me! and I 
care for none of these things.” 

Cecilia began to cry. . 

“ Sometimes you frighten me,” she sobbed. “I cannot reach 
up to your heights at all. I cannot understand you. Don’t 
you know that very good people can ; have a due regard to 
being rich?. Don’t you know that very good people can wish 
for a great reputation?” 

“ Doubtless. But my tastes do not happen to lie in that 
direction. Now, my darling, dry your eyes; we will not 
discuss the question any further, only hear my ultimatum. 
You are never to be parlor-maid in 48 Hartrick Street again.” 

“No, no, I never will.” 

“And James Phillips is not to infect you with his ideas of 
life.” 


THE DOCTORS CARRIAGE. 


161 


“No,” she said, suddenly taking up her husband’s big hand 
and kissing it, “not while I have you for my teacher.” 

“My dear,” continued Digby, “Phillips and I are as the 
poles asunder. I do not want to set myself up as a better 
man than Phillips, and yet I won’t be untrue; I believe, be- 
fore God, that I am a man with a deeper sense of honor. 
Now, to revert to the question of domestic servants. The 
little humble menage at Coxmoor Street will not suffice for 
48 Hartrick Street.” 

“Helen was here this morning,” retorted Cecilia, “and she 
suggested that we should have a man in every morning for 
three or four hours, who would open the door for your pa- 
tients.” 

“My dear, you forget that I have no patients.” 

“But they will come. I feel positively assured of that.” 

“ When they come in sufficient numbers we will think of a 
manservant,” said Digby. “At present I would rather not 
have one in the house, but to-morrow you must go to a really 
good registry office and engage a parlor maid who will open 
the door and be able to record faithfully all messages on a 
slate. At first she will be taken up replying to my old Cox- 
moor connection, for I can well assure you that some of them 
will follow me here; in any case, they will be good practice 
for her when those rich people whom you have set your heart 
on begin to arrive, my darling.” 

Cecilia’s next remark was made with a queer beating at her 
heart. 

“About your carriage?” she whispered. 

“You know I don’t intend to set up a carriage.” 

“But, Laurence, if you would just listen to reason. Hav- 
ing taken this great step, must everything prove a failure be- 
cause you will not drive to see your patients?” 

“My dear, even if I could afford to keep a carriage, I 
should miss my walk — I should get out of health. My poor 
folks would be quite uncomfortable if they saw me driving up 
to their doors in a brougham. Cecilia, my love, what is the 
matter?” 

Cecilia had suddenly burst into an agony of tears. 

“I am sorry we came here,” she said. “It was a bold ex- 
periment, but it might have succeeded if you would only 
take the right steps; but you fail at the critical juncture. 
You don’t care for money — I do. I don’t want it because 
I long for soft living and beautiful dresses, and all those lux- 


162 


TEE MEET CINE LADY. 


uries which people generally associate with wealth, but I do 
want it because I believe in you, and know that if you are a 
rich and great physician you can help thousands of people 
who wdll never know anything about you as long as you live 
in retirement. I do want it also because of little Nance, for 
little Nance must have no rough breath to blow on her. O 
Laurence, look me in the face and tell me if our child can 
live under the breath of adversity?” 

“We can never tell,” replied Digby, “what may or may 
not be best for a human life, but, as far as lies in my power, 
I am bound to tell you the truth. Nance has a frail life, an ill 
wind might quickly crush it. There is not the least doubt 
in the world that the life which the wealthy lead would be 
the best life for our little girl.” 

“Then,” said Cecilia eagerly, crimson spots on each of her 
cheeks, “you will take steps to secure that life — you will be 
guided by me, yes — by me ! I have brought you here ; I have 
taken the responsibility. Having done the great thing, you 
must not fail with regard to the little.” 

“All this means,” interrupted Digby, “that I am to drive 
about, a miserable man, in a close carriage, for so many 
hours every day — no good to myself or anyone else.” 

“Yes, yes, good to me — the best possible good to me.” 

Digby pushed his wife’s hair from her forehead. 

“How about the means to pay for the carriage?” he asked. 
“You have a strange power of twisting me round your little 
finger, but I swear before heaven that you shall not touch the 
money put away for the rent.” 

“No,” said Cecilia, “I can manage without that. Leave 
ways and means to me, Laurence. You left the furnishing 
of the house to me, and asked no questions. I do not want to 
buy a carriage now, but I do want to hire one. Let me hire a 
brougham say — say for three months. If at the end of that 
time you do not need it, I will promise you faithfully to say 
no word of complaining, to utter no grumble of any sort, 
but with my own lips to counsel you to put it down. Grant 
me this one more boon. Let me hire a brougham for you for 
three months.” 

And Digby, being in many particulars a weak man, bent 
and kissed his wife, and said: 

“Do as you please.” 


TURN , FORTUNE , FtTtfY THY WHEEL. 


163 


CHAPTER IX. 

TURN, FORTUNE, TURN THY WHEEL. 

About a week after Lady Sharpe had come to see Digby, 
he received a letter from her. 

“ Please come and see me between two and three this after- 
noon,” she wrote. 

Cecilia felt almost undue elation at this brief epistle, but 
Digby took it quietly. 

“How glad I am that you have got that nice brougham,” 
said the wife, “and how delightful to see you in that long, 
professional black coat. Laurence, you really look delightful ! 
To see you enter a room would give confidence to any sick 
person.” 

Digby folded up his letter, and slipped it into his pocket. 

“I am glad I please you,” he said. “Now, you must 
please me. Put on your bonnet and drive with me to Lady 
Sharpe’s. You can sit in the brougham while I pay my 
visit, and to keep you company little Nance shall come 
and sit on your knee and talk to you.” 

Cecilia laughed, and ran off gaily to get ready. 

She was a really beautiful young woman at this time, and, 
in a black silk dress and daintily made soft gray bonnet, 
looked as sweet and charming a wife as man could desire. 

Nance was also highly elated at the thought of a drive 
with her father and mother, and the little brougham was full 
of merry sounds and gay baby laughter as it rolled away to 
Cadogan Square. 

Digby got out, and remained for nearly an hour with Lady 
Sharpe. She told him frankly what she required. 

“I was full of hope the other day when I paid you a visit,” 
she said. “Your words gave me keen and bitter disappoint- 
ment. The disappointment is now a thing of the past. I am 
much as I was before. Dr. Digby, my husband and I have 
more money than we know what to do with, but money with- 
out Dorothy is like meat without salt. You are a very hon- 
est, a very good, and, I am certain, a very clever physician. 
Take Dorothy’s little frail life into your hands, and keep her 
with us as long as possible.” 

“Dear madam,” replied Digby, “the precious little life is 
in higher hands than mine.” 

“Yes, yes, but God puts thoughts into the heads of clever 


164 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


doctors like you. Use them for Dorothy’s benefit. Her 
father and I wish you to become her physician. Do your best 
for her. Take her under your care.” 

“ I will gladly do my utmost for her. Shall I see her now?” 

“In a moment or two. I have something else I want to 
say. You spoke of the Engadine as a good place for our 
child to winter in.” 

“I think so still,” replied Digby. “One of the newest 
ideas with regard to consumption is that cold, dry air can 
effect wonderful results. Of course, I mean in cases where 
the patients have not suffered for a length of time ; in 
cases like your daughters, where the mischief is compara- 
tively small and recent. Cold, dry air in such cases excites 
the action of each portion of the lung, and the consequence 
is that the disease is often completely arrested and the patch 
of tubercle dried up. I hold with the idea, but, of course, the 
greatest number of the profession is against it. The pre- 
vailing idea is that warm, soft air acts like cream to the 
diseased lung and effects a partial cure. I recommend the 
Engadine for your daughter, Lady Sharpe, but I can scarcely 
ask you to take her there on my responsibility alone. Had 
you not better consult Dr. Dickinson, for instance. He is 
one of the cleverest men in the profession for cases of tuber- 
cular disease. I will gladly take Miss Sharpe to see him if 
you will allow me.” 

“No,” replied Lady Sharpe, “neither her father nor I wish 
it. We know Dr. Dickinson’s name, of course, and w 
have taken Dorothy to him in the first instance, but, ha\ 
consulted you, we wish you to take the matter into yo- 
own hands. We do not want a second opinion. Llundreds ci 
people go for cure to the Riviera. They come back supposed 
to be cured, and their friends are full of false hopes. But the 
first chill, the first breath of cold air in Old England, undoes 
all the good that the warm climate has effected. The old 
mischief begins again, and the patients die. Your idea with 
regard to the Engadine quite fills me with hope, Dr. Digby. 
No, please don’t crush it — let me hope while I may. Now, 
I have one more thing to ask. To what part of the Engadine 
shail we take Dorothy?” 

“You must go to the high air of the Upper Engadine, 
where there is plenty of sunlight. St. Moritz would probably 
suit you.” 

“I am coming to the point,” interrupted Lady Sharpe. 


TURN, FORTUNE, TURN THY WHEEL. 


165 


“ Dr. Digby , my husband made a suggestion to me last night. 
He wants to know if you will accompany us when we go 
abroad — will you stay with us for a week or ten days, for 
longer if necessary, in order to help us to choose the very 
best place for our winter residence, in order to test the effect 
of the climate on our child, in order also to put her under the 
care of the very best physician in the place? I know,” con- 
tinued Lady Sharpe, “that I ask a great sacrifice at your 
hands. Your valuable practice, your patients — you must 
have many, many patients — will have to do without you for 
a certain time, but money is no object with us. We will com- 
pensate you for any money loss you may sustain. We will 
pay you any reasonable sum you like to ask, and we will also 
gladly pay for the services of a first-rate physician to take 
your place in 48 Hartrick Street while you are away. Will 
you consider our proposal? Will you come with us?” 

“I cannot say at this moment that I will come with you,” 
said Digby, “but I will think over the proposal with which 
you have honored me, and I will let you know my decision 
within twenty -four hours.” 

“ What a good man you are ! I see by your eyes that you 
will come.” 

“ It is very probable that I may, but I cannot speak cer- 
tainly yet.” 

“And your price — but we need not talk about money yet.” 

“Yes,” said Digby, “we must talk about the money part, 
and at once. I am coming to that. My price, Lady Sharpe, 
for accompanying you and your husband and Miss Sharpe to 
the Engadine will not be ruinous. I must confess something 
to you — I have no patients to leave behind me. I have only 
just come to 48 Hartrick Street, and my patients — if ever I 
am to have any rich patients — have yet to find me out. The 
wealthy patients who make a doctor’s time of immense money 
value do not exist at present for me, Lady Sharpe.” 

“Is it possible,” said Lady Sharpe, opening her eyes, “is it 
possible that a man of your attainments, your skill, your acu- 
men, can be unknown — that no one comes to consult you? 
Have you really no patients? I cannnot believe you.” 

“In your sense of the word, I have no patients. There 
are many of the poor who know me well : I had a large prac- 
tice among the unpaying population in a poor part of 
Bloomsbury. I have left them — God knows why — and 
come to Hartrick Street. Enough; I have stated the fact to 


166 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


you. I shall not refuse a fee for accompanying you and Sir 
Probyn Sharpe and Miss Dorothy, but it will not be a large 
one. Now, can I see your daughter?” 

After the medical interview was over, Dorothy Sharpe, 
who was feeling well and in high spirits to-day, skipped out 
on the balcony to see her new doctor step into his brougham. 

A moment later she rushed back to her mother in a state of 
excitement. 

“Mother, what do you think? There was a sweet little 
child in the carriage. Her head was all over those bobby 
little curls which are so fascinating, and I think the doctor 
kissed her as he was getting into the carriage, although I am 
not so sure about that. But, mother dear, what I wanted to 
say was something much more important. The little girl was 

sitting on a beautiful lady’s knee, and the lady Mother, 

she opened the door for us the day we called in Hartrick 
Street.” 

“That accounts for it,” said Lady Sharpe. 

“Accounts for what, mother?” 

“ Nothing, dear, nothing. Don’t sit in a draught, Dorothy, 
my love. Poor man, how pale he got ! It was then he saw 
her. I thought something had made him suddenly ill. 
Dorothy, the lives of other people are often full of sorrow. 
I should not be surprised if the Digbys were very poor.” 

“Oh, mother, scarcely! They live in Hartrick Street.” 

“Even though they live in Hartrick Street. Dorothy, 
sweet, we will be very good to them.” 

“Yes, mother. Yes-, yes. I love Dr. Digby already. If 
he were to say to me, ‘Dorothy, you have got to die,’ I think 
the look in his eyes would take fear from my heart. I should 
like him to hold my hand when I am slipping out of the world. 
What is the matter, mother?” 

“ He is more likely to say, ‘Dorothy, you have got to live,’ ” 
said Lady Sharpe, rising from her chair. “ Do you know, my 
love, that we have asked him to come with us to the Engacline? 

“ How lovely ! Could you not ask the pretty wife and the 
sweet child to come, too?” 

“I will if you wish it. Yes, Dorothy, I noticed her white 
hands. Poor girl, poor girl! But no wonder her husband 
turned pale.” 


TBooft TIT.— IDr. ©igbs, 


CHAPTER I. 

MOTIVES. 

“I am quite ready now, mother. The story is perfect. 
You must listen to me. Put down your work and fix your 
eyes on my face, and then I will begin.” 

The speaker was a slim little girl about nine years of age. 
Her name was Nance Digby, and her big, rather hungry, 
rather sad, gray eyes were fixed with an eager concentration 
on her mother’s countenance. 

“Mother, mother, you must listen. Put down your work, 
and let me tell you my beautiful story.” 

“Nance, darling, father says that it isn’t good for you to 
excite your little brain by telling so many stories.” 

“Oh, mother dear!” The child laughed merrily. “That 
sounds as if father thought I were not speaking the truth. I 
cannot help making up stories, and I cannot help telling them 
to some one. Henny-Penny doesn’t understand them, but you 
do — I see by your eyes that you do. Mother, mother,” she 
added, her expressive face changing, “I love to tell my 
stories to you, for I know that you agree with me about 
them.” 

“What do you mean, Nance?” 

“You see the truth under the words. It seems to me that 
there are no things in all the world so true as some of my 
stories. They are more beautiful than anything else to me ; 
they comfort my heart more than anything else.” 

“ Come and put your arms round my neck,” said Cecilia. 

She folded the thin little figure in a passionate embrace, 
printed a kiss on the big brow, and pushed back the child’s 
hair from her forehead. 

“Now, darling mother, you must listen. I have got a 
lovely name for my story to-night. I have called it ‘Inside 

167 


168 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


and Outside the World.’ My head is full of it — it is quite a 
lovely story. Now, are you ready? Shall I begin?” 

“ What is that I hear?” asked another voice. The door of 
the beautifully [furnished drawing-room was opened, and 
Digby, quite an elderly looking man now, strode across the 
room. 

Nance sprang at once from her mother’s side and clasped 
her arms affectionately round his legs. 

“Daddy, you don’t really think it is wrong of me to tell 
stories to mother?” 

Digby sat down by the open window, and Nance curled 
herself up in a contented fashion into his arms. 

“I am awfully cozy when I sit like this,” she said. “Now 
may I begin my story? Mother, are you going to listen? 
Father, just say that I may tell my beautiful story to 
mother. ” 

Digby took out his watch. 

“You may tell your mother all the little romance that is 
in your heart for exactly ten minutes, Nancy,” he said. “No 
more time will be allowed. After the ten minutes are up, you 
are to go straight to bed and forget the story.” 

“Yes, I will try and forget it; it isn’t easy, though. It 
is very hard indeed to forget the lovely things that come into 
my head. My head gets so full of them sometimes that I 
scarcely know what to do, but I will try my very best if I may 
talk fast and let out a lot of thoughts for ten minutes. First, 
though, I want to ask a question. Are you going out this 
evening, dad?” 

“I cannot possibly say. I have no present intention of 
going out to-night, but a doctor’s time is not his own.” 

“Dr. Phillips never goes out in the evening,” said Nance, 
“and he says ” 

“Hush, my love,” replied Digby, “you have got to attend 
to the sayings and doings of your own doctor, who lives at No. 
48. You have no occasion to trouble your wise little head 
about what any other doctor does.” 

“ I should think not,” said Nance. “ Now, shall I begin n^ 
story. Mother, are you listening?” 

“Yes, sweet,” replied Cecilia. She gave the child a pas- 
sionate glance of adoration, then dropped her eyes to hide 
some tears which were springing into them. 

Nance began her tale. It was wild, absolutely improbable, 
but also absolutely original. There were fairies in it, and 


MOTIVES. 


160 


princes, and little girls with brave hearts. The children in 
the story had battles to fight, had fears to slay, had enemies 
to encounter. They did the right thing without swerving, 
and they always came off victorious in the battle. 

As the little narrator poured out her eager, quick, spirited 
words her cheeks flushed and her lovely eyes gleamed with a 
spiritual light as if she was looking far ahead and really living 
in the queer but exquisite medley her imagination had conjured 
up. 

“Hush, Nance,” said Digby at last. “Your ten minutes 
have expired, so you must say good-night, and go to 
bed.” 

“ Daddy, if you are not going out, will you come upstairs 
in half an hour and hear me say my prayers?” 

“Yes, my dearest, yes.” 

“I will be sure to pray for you, you darlingest dad.” She 
squeezed her arm round his neck, and crushed a fierce kiss on 
his cheek. “I will pray for you, too, mother, and you will 
come up to see me, won’t you?” 

Mrs. Digby nodded, kissed the child two or three times, 
and let her go. 

When the door closed behind the little girl, Cecilia turned 
at once to her husband. 

“I thought you did not wish Nance to be encouraged in 
her habit of telling stories,” she said. 

“It is impossible to suppress her altogether,” said Digby. 
“ The child will write lovely stories to guide and help people 
when she is older — that is, if she lives.” 

“Laurence!” His wife’s voice was passionate with pain. 

Digby looked at her sorrowfully. “The little one carries 
a frail and uncertain life in her breast,” he said in a low 
voice. “ Her very genius is but a part of that malady which 
she was born to inherit. There, Cecilia, don’t cry. Nance 
has been well up to the present. With great care she may 
continue to enjoy fair health for many years. I have thought 
much of her case, and I see more and more every day that it 
would be wrong to turn her mind from its natural bent. Her 
vivid imagination cannot be altogether repressed ; it must be 
strengthened and guided by judicious study, and by develop- 
ing her brain in other directions. She has a love for natural 
history. That love must be fostered. A great deal must be 
done both to brace her mind and body, but to suppress her im- 
gination altogether would do her a serious mischief. I am 


170 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


sometimes inclined to think that a very good school would be 
the best place for her.” 

“No,” replied Cecilia, “that is a cruel thought. I will 
never consent to part with her.” 

“Your influence is not the best for her, Cecilia. You are 
too sensitive yourself, you make too much] of her trivial ail- 
ments; these ought to be passed over unnoticed. It is im- 
possible for you to help this. You have a good deal of mor- 
bidness in your nature; the child inherits that from you — 
your very love for her partakes of this morbid quality.” 

Mrs. Digby ’s face changed color; she moved restlessly in 
her chair, then leaving her seat by the open window, she 
stepped on to the balcony and began to arrange some flowers 
that filled it. Digby took up an evening paper and read. 
After a little he looked at his watch, remembered his promise 
to Nance, and went upstairs to fulfill it. 

The little girl’s room was the prettiest in the house. It con- 
tained pictures, toys, and childish books. It was all gay, 
all fresh. There seemed no want in the lovely room, and 
Nance, now sitting up in her white bed waiting for her 
father, made an exquisite center to the pretty picture. 

The child’s little face was scarcely in itself beautiful. The 
mouth was pathetic and old in its expression, the cheeks were 
slightly hollow, the complexion wanting in color, but the 
upper part of the face, the brows, the white forehead, the eyes, 
out of which a lovely eager soul seemed ever to look, made 
that little countenance one hard to be forgotten even by those 
who only saw her once or twice — made it one to be passionately 
loved by those who knew her well. 

Digby came up now and kissed the child. 

“Daddy, I have waited to say my prayers. Stoop down 
and let me put my arms round your neck and whisper them 
against your ear.” 

Digby knelt down by the bed, and Nance knelt upon it and 
laid her soft cheek against the doctor’s. She prayed, 
whispering her words so low that they scarcely reached his 
ear. 

“Now, my darling,” said Digby, “lie down, shut your 
eyes, and go to sleep.” 

“Father, dear,” said Nance, “I do take such a long, long 
time going to sleep. I say my texts over and over and over, 
then I say my prayers again. Sometimes I am praying for you 
and mother for such an age — it comforts me to pray a lot 


MOTIVES. 


171 


when I am lying awake and longing for Henny-Penny to come 
to bed. Why doesn’t God let me go to sleep just at once 
when I shut my eyes like other little girls, Daddy?” 

“ Because you think too much, Nance. Now listen, my 
dearest, I am going to say something which you must not 
misunderstand. God loves to listen to your little prayers, 
and most assuredly when you call He will answer, while 
you speak lie will hear, but, darling, He doesn’t want you to 
say the same prayers over and over again. You have prayed 
for mother and for me and for all the people you love already 
to-night. God knows what you wish about them, so now, 
my dear, let the matter drop. You have told your wants to 
God : be assured that He will do everything that is best for 
you. Prayer, Nance, does not mean a lot of words said over 
and over again. ‘Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire. ’ Do you 
understand me, Nancy?” 

“I think so, darling dad.” 

“Well, my love, you know what your sincere desire is? 
Now, good-night — shut your eyes — go to sleep.” 

Digby passed his hand two or three -times over the child’s 
hot forehead, then he drew down the blinds, kissed little 
Nance, and shut the door softly behind him. 

“That child is twenty times too precocious,” he murmured 
to himself as he ran downstairs. “Oh, poor Cecil and poor 
Nance, if I could only discover some radical means of curing 
that tendency which will surely make life too heavy a burden 
to you both !” 

Seven years in Hartrick Street had brought many changes 
in their course. The bold experiment which Cecilia had made 
was successful. Little by little Digby gained patients, 
gained popularity, gained a practice sufficient to bring him 
in a really large income. The brougham which came every 
day to his door was no longer a hired one. Money [anxieties 
had fled from the household. Cecilia managed the purse, and 
Digby ceased to speak of possible debts and possible money 
cares. 

Without intending it, he had become a specialist in his 
profession. In all cases of tubercular disease no man was 
more consulted, and no man’s opinion was of greater value 
than Laurence Digby ’s. His treatment of Dorothy Sharpe 
had prolonged her life without curing her lungs — she would 
be delicate all her days, but under Digby’s judicious manage- 
ment the disease was arrested, and, unless something occurred 


172 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


to start it into activity, she might live even to see old age. 
Lady Sharpe and Dorothy were some of the doctor’s warm- 
est friends. They spoke of him far and near, and to them as 
much as to Phillips he owed the patients who came day after 
day to this house in search of cure. 

As riches poured in, Cecilia showed herself capable of man- 
aging them to the best advantage. 

“Laurence,” she said to her husband, when the tide of pros- 
perity was so plainly on the flow that doubts and fears might 
now be abandoned, “you ‘have your patients — you have all 
the cares of your profession to worry and absorb your mind. 
Let me keep the purse strings. Hand the money over to me 
as you earn it.” 

“ I will gladly do so,” said Digby. “ I am the worst money 
manager in the world.” 

From that moment Cecilia received the guineas which were 
placed in Digby’s hand by grateful patients. She made, as 
she thought, the best use of this little harvest, and Digby 
banished the cares of money from his mind. 

As the years went on, however, the intimacy between 
Digby and Phillips did not increase. On the contrary, the 
aversion which each man felt for the other manifested itself 
in small actions, in slight coldnesses, in the thousand and one 
ways in which a man can show his brother that, though they 
may touch hands outwardly, there is a wide gulf between their 
hearts. 

Cecilia and Helena met nearly every day, but Phillips and 
Digby saw little of each other for weeks at a time. 

Phillips had also won success in his profession. He had a 
particularly gracious manner, a kind and sympathetic glance, 
a voice with a certain pathetic ring in it which women found 
especially captivating, and a perfect genius for concealing 
unpleasant truths from his patients. 

If Digby was a little too brusque in telling the naked truth, 
Phillips, on the other hand, gilded the bitter pill so effectu- 
ally that real danger, even when it existed, was quite unsus- 
pected. He was a man with a certain smart and showy 
cleverness, and as years went by, and more and more patients 
came to him, and he visited a wider and wider circle of sick 
people, he gained an invaluable amount of experience, which 
he was quite sharp enough to use to the best possible advan- 
tage. He became a great favorite with ladies, and those in 
especial who suffered from nervous ailments thought his 


MOTIVES. 


173 


diagnosis delightful. He assured the sufferers that their 
complaints were real, not imaginary, and, cleverly watching 
their faces while he spoke, he invariably Ordered the prescrip- 
tion on which their hearts were set. Lady Mary Fortescue 
must winter at Nice; Mrs Henderson must go into society as 
much as she pleased; Miss Honor Douglas must give up her 
French and German, and be presented a year younger than 
her mother had the least intention of allowing her to come out. 

Whatever the prescription, the opinions which followed it 
were always the same. 

“Dear Dr. Phillips! how delightful he is, how sympathiz- 
ing, how understanding! And above all things, how true!” 

For one of the great secrets of Phillips’s power was his 
ability to make a falsehood look like a truth, and the chief 
reason why he detested Digby was his own perception of the 
other man’s real knowledge of his character. 

Phillips was successful, but he was not contented. He had 
an affectionate and pretty wife, he had more money than 
he knew what to do with, he had a beautiful home and heaps 
of friends. 

Still, as the years went on, the discontent in his heart grew 
fiercer and fiercer. 

He envied Digby. There were two things Digby had 
that he wanted. One was a child (Phillips had no children), 
the other was the secret that Digby possessed and made no 
use of. 

The knowledge of that secret sank every day, every month, 
every year, with a deeper weight of displeasure and annoyance 
into Phillips’s heart. 

He would have given half his fortune to possess it. To be 
the man to proclaim such a secret to the world would be fame 
indeed. 

His ears tingled, his heart beat, he felt a sense of irritation 
from head to foot, as night after night he sat in his consult- 
ing room, with his medical books spread around him, and 
thought of the man at the other side of the wall who was prob- 
ably also searching for knowledge, and yet possessed and 
kept to himself the threads of a gift which might spread sun- 
shine through the entire world. 

Phillips called Digby many hard names under his breath. 
He accused him of cowardice, indifference, of even brutality 
in allowing his patients to suffer, while he held the sovereign 
X'emedy which alone would restore them to health. 


174 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


It was many years now since Phillips had obtained a clew 
to Digby’s discovery. 

He had found it out through an accident which a more 
honorable man would not have made use of. 

Phillips, while a student at St. Christopher’s, had, on a 
certain occasion, become the possessor of Digby’s pocket- 
book. 

In going the rounds of one of the wards Digby had 
dropped it without being aware of the fact. Phillips picked 
it up, intending to return it to him, but Digby was at the 
moment engaged in earnest consultation with one of the visit- 
ing physicians. 

Phillips slipped the book into his own pocket, and forgot 
that he had it. 

That night he had a headache, and went early to his room. 
In taking off his coat, the pocketbook fell on the floor. He 
picked it up, drew a candle toward him, sat down in his shirt 
sleeves, and began deliberately to examine the contents. 

The pocketbook was full of notes, some in shorthand, of 
which Phillips could make nothing, but others clearly written 
out in Digby’s firm and very legible hand. 

Phillips expected to find treasures of a different kind in the 
pocketbook. He glanced over the medical notes with 
languid interest, and was about to replace them in their re- 
ceptacle when the recurrence of a certain word repeated many 
times attracted his attention. 

The word was “tubercular.” Phillips had no special inter- 
est in the class of disease this word referred to. He came 
himself of a very healthy stock, but it so happened that he was 
attending a course of lectures on this subject, and it occurred 
to him that Digby’s clever notes might materially help him. 
They were all numbered, and he quickly arranged them in 
rotation, and began to read. 

His eyes rested on the following words: 

“After various attempts hare succeeded in obtaining a pure 
lymph. Have I in my hands the remedy for this terrible 
scourge of tubercular disease?” 

Phillips read these words two or three times. He turned 
the papers eagerly. Soon another extract fixed his atten- 
tion. 

“Injected half a dram of the attenuated lymph at 8.30 
p. m. At 8.H>, felt a distinct rigor, felt ill all night, could 
not sleep. Temperature 101° to 105 Began to iconder, had 


MOTIVES. 


175 


X produced septicaemia in myself. In the morning , 8.30, tem- 
perature normal. Felt shaky , head full of pain! 

There were various other notes, which Phillips read and re- 
read. It is unnecessary to say that he was quickly interested, 
absorbed, struck dumb with wonder. Light seemed to pour 
in upon him. What had he not found? What germ of a 
great thought — nay, what great and wonderful thought in its 
maturity did not lie in his hands? He turned to the first slip 
of paper and read it again : 

“After various attempts have succeeded in obtaining a 
pure lymph. Have I in my hands the remedy for this ter- 
rible scourge?” 

Phillips read all these slips of paper many times, then he 
uttered an exclamation of dismay. The notes in his hand 
were, after all, of the most tantalizing kind. What was the 
pure lymph? Where was it to be found? How was it to be 
perfected? The notes in themselves were nothing, this clew 
being wanted. Here they failed, fell short, stopped. 

Phillips swore a great oath of disappointment. Then he 
sat with his head in his hands, thinking hard. 

If only he could steal Digby’s discovery from him and use 
it for himself! What a revenge was here for the insults 
Digby had heaped on him at St. Christopher’s, for the slight- 
ing remarks with regard to his personal appearance which so 
galled him, for the scant courtesy with which his would-be 
clever remarks were received, for the brusquerie which 
crushed his immature ideas ! 

Phillips hated Digby with the cordial r ( hatred of the insin- 
cere toward the sincere, of the shallow toward the deep 
nature, of the superficialist toward the man of profound 
knowledge. If he could only adapt Digby ’s cure and pro- 
claim it to the world as his own, then he felt that the spite 
in his heart would die and he could forgive Digby. 

The notes in Digby’s pocketbook were, however, in them- 
selves useless. A cleverer man than Phillips could have made 
nothing of them, for the guiding thought which put each 
word in its rightful place was not supplied. The notes were 
even misleading ; they seemed to Phillips to point to a finished 
and thoroughly established discovery, not to a great idea in 
its infancy. 

He spent a sleepless night; the next morning he found an op- 
portunity to restore the pocketbook to Digby’s room — Digby 
himself had never missed it — and then made up his mind to 


176 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


cultivate the friendship of his natural enemy, in order to steal 
his secret from him by guile. 

From the moment Phillips read the notes in the pocket- 
book this thought became the ruling passion of his life. 
It was with this motive that he induced the Digbys to come 
to Hartrick Street; it was with this motive that he helped 
Digby to obtain patients, and secretly assisted Cecilia when 
she was short of money. 

The object of his life was to get Digby into his power. 

As yet, however, all Phillips’s efforts had been in vain. 
Digby sometimes wondered how the rumors that were circu- 
lated about him got abroad. He was tired of parrying in- 
quiries with regard to the great scientific discovery he was 
supposed to have made ; for no hints from friend or foe could 
draw a word of real admission from his lips. His attitude 
was strictly neutral. Cecilia was the only person to whom he 
had ever spoken of what had once been a great, but was now, 
alas ! an unfulfilled dream, and Cecilia was true as steel. 

It occurred to Phillips that, as a last resource, he might play 
upon Cecilia’s fears with regard to Nance, and induce her to 
talk to her husband on the subject of his long buried dis- 
covery. He watched for his opportunity, and on the very 
evening on which Digby went upstairs to hear his little girl 
say her prayers, he called at No. 48, and ran up to the draw- 
ing room, to find Cecilia busy with her flowers. 

The “window dodge” had long ago been abandoned in 
Cecilia’s lovely home. The large and beautiful house was now 
fully furnished from attic to cellar, and the exquisite taste of 
its mistress was apparent in all its arrangements. 

Cecilia had developed into an excellent and capable house- 
wife. Her household was well ordered, its machinery kept 
in motion by kindly words, by tact (it was quite a new thing 
for poor Cecilia to develop tact), by firmness and yet by sym- 
pathy. Beauty and peace both reigned in Digby’s house, 
and Cecilia was the motive power that kept all in har- 
mony. 

Phillips came into the drawing room now, and seeing Mrs. 
Digby on the balcony, joined her there. 

“Helen has sent me with a message,” he said. “She 
wants to know if you will name a day to come on the river 
with us. We thought of inviting the Lawsons and the Mere- 
diths, and a few other friends. Suppose we say Saturday 
week. If you and Digby will join us, we will write and 


MOTIVES. 


1 11 

order a steam launch and make the other necessary prepara- 
tions.” 

“I will ask my husband,” said Cecilia. “He is particularly 
busy just now. He is anxious about some of his cases.” 

“Does he confide his anxieties to you?” 

“ Of course,” she answered proudly. “He never tells any 
of his patients’ secrets, but he does talk to me when he is anx- 
ious, and I try my best to cheer him.” 

“A model wife,” said Phillips, with a little laugh. His 
tone was melodious and sweet, but there was a covert sneer 
in his handsome eyes, which Mrs. Digby saw and quickly re- 
sented. 

She walked to the other end of the balcony, and sat down 
in a low deck chair. The old, almost forgotten dislike to 
Phillips rose up again in her heart. 

His eyes followed her as she swept across the little balcony. 
Her perfectly proportioned figure, the proud pose of her 
head, the exquisite color which mantled her cheeks were 
none of them lost on him. 

“Every inch a queen,” he quoted under his breath. “By 
Jove,” he thought, in his jealous soul, “if only little Helen 
could look like this woman ! Why should Digby have every- 
thing? I hate the man ! I’ll be his undoing if I can !” 

He was standing by a tall, flowering plant ; he now followed 
Mrs. Digby and stood by her side. 

“Where is Nance?” he asked. 

Cecilia stretched out her hand and pulled a rose from a 
shrub in full flower; she held it in her hand, and absently took 
off one petal after the other as she replied : 

“It shows what a stranger you are, Dr. Phillips, when you 
ask if Nance is up at this hour. If children are to be kept 
healthy, they must be sent to bed betimes. I trust she is in 
the land of dreams long ere this.” 

“If children are to be kept healthy,” repeated Phillips. 
The marked tones of anxiety in his voice arrested Mrs. 
Digby’s over-anxious heart. She ceased to pull her rose to 
pieces, and her eyes, pathetic and questioning, were fixed on 
the man who stood near her. 

“Why do you speak like that?” she said. “You awake 
my anxieties. Nance is an only child.” 

“And has the cleverest doctor in the world for her father,” 
returned James Phillips. “ If ever a woman need not be anx- 
ious, it is Mrs. Digby. Nance is a lovely creature. She 


178 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


reminds me of a spirit — her movements are so light, her glance 
so swift, her smile so radiant. She is not a common child, by 
any means. I should apply the word genius to her. I was 
only remarking to my wife last night that I never met anyone 
so absolutely original as your little Nance.” 

As Phillips spoke he dropped into another deck chair which 
was standing near him. The rich tones of his voice fell on 
Cecilia’s ear with a power which awakened all her fears. 
She wanted to go away, she wanted to shake off the spell 
which she feared; but the subject which Phillips discussed 
fascinated her, and she felt afraid to move. 

After a very long pause she said : 

“I would rather people said anything of Nance than that 
she had genius and beauty. Nothing in the world would give 
me such comfort as to hear the remark made, ‘That is a plain 
and commonplace child. ’ ” 

“ Such a sentence could never be uttered,” said Phillips. 

The child is uncommon to the last degree, and ” 

“She is not strictly beautiful,” said Cecilia, in a tone of 
entreaty. 

“Her features are not perfect,” replied Phillips, “but once 

get a glance from those eyes Ah ! Mrs. Digby, you are 

to be congratulated. Anyone would be proud to be the 
mother of a creature like your little daughter.” 

Cecilia again sat silent. The rose in her hand was plucked 
to pieces, the torn leaves lay on her light silk dress, her white 
hand trembled as it rested on her knee. At last she spoke 
abruptly. 

“I must ask you a question. What is your candid opinion 
with regard to our little girl’s health?” 

Phillips laughed. 

“Ask your husband,” he said. 

“Of course, I can do that,” replied Cecilia; “but a father, 
and a very devoted father, may be prejudiced — may be unable 
to come to the exact truth. You are also a doctor, but you 
are an outsider. As an outsider, tell me frankly what you 
think of Nance. Is she strong? Is she likely to grow up a 
strong woman?” 

Phillips glanced toward the open window. He felt half 
inclined to get up and shut it ; his chair creaked, his answer 
was delayed. 

“Speak to me,” said Cecilia. “I want to know the truth 
— the exact truth.” 


TWO DOCTORS AND TWO PATIENTS. 


179 


“ The exact truth is this,” said Phillips. “Nance seems to 
me to be the kind of child who may die of consumption un- 
less very great care is taken of her.” 

“Thank you,” said Cecilia. Her face was deathly pale. 
She rose from her chair, and shook the rose leaves to the 
ground. 

“Mrs. Digby,” said Phillips suddenly, “you know, you 
must know, that the remedy lies, to a certain extent, in your 
own hands.” 

“The remedy? What do you mean? Is there anything in 
the wide world, is there anything beneath the earth or in the 
heavens above, that a mother w r ould not do to save the life 
of her only child? The remedy! Good God! Dr. Phillips, 
you speak, who know very little of a mother’s heart!” 

“Forgive me, dear lady,” said Phillips. “I spoke with 
reason. You know as well as I do that the remedy which can 
cure little Nance lies in your husband’s hands. Get him to 
use it. There, I have spoken.” 

CHAPTER II. 

TWO DOCTORS AND TWO PATIENTS. 

The picnic on the Thames was arranged to take place on 
the following Saturday week. The Phillipses and the Digbys 
were to give it between them. They were both to ask a 
certain number of friends, and Cecilia was now busy making 
a list of those acquaintances to whom she intended to send in- 
vitations. 

Nance stood by her mother’s side as she sat by her writing 
table. 

“We will ask the Sharpes,” said Cecilia. “They must 
come, whoever else refuses; and what do you think of invit- 
ing the Carrs? You are rather fond of little Arthur Carr, 
Nance, and we might ask Mr. and Mrs. Robertson and their 
children. My darling, how delighted you look ! Oh, what it 
is to be young ! For my part, I quite dread the day — such a 
crowd of people, and the sun will be so hot, and the water so 
dazzling. If we were going alone — just you and I and dad — 
I, too, could skip for joy: but with a crowd, and many of 
them total strangers, I confess to you, my wise little Nance, 
that I don’t care for the set of people the Phillipses will ask.” 

“I love everybody,” said Nance, skipping up and down 


180 


TEE MEDICINE LADY. 


the room. “I never met the person yet I didn’t love. When 
I talk to them, all people seem nice, but the most particularly 
nice person I know after you and dad, mother, is Dorothy. 
I love Dorothy more than anyone in the world after you and 
dad.” 

“Yes, my darling, Dorothy Sharpe is a sweet girl. We 
must not lose an hour in asking her to come with us. I will 
write a note this moment, and you shall take it to her. You 
can ride over to Cadogan Square on your pony, Nance.” 

“Thank you, mother. I shall like that.” 

“Then run upstairs and get on your habit, dearest.” 

Nance raised her lips to her mother’s cheek. 

“I will run down first to give dad my morning kiss,” she 
exclaimed; “I won’t be a moment.” 

Digby was just preparing to see his first patient when 
Nance, in her white frock, skipped into the room. 

“My darling,” he said, glancing at her with a smile, “you 
must run away now, I am busy.” 

“Just one kiss, father, and then I am off.” 

She pressed her lips to his cheek, and he gave her what 
she was pleased to call his bear’s hug. She danced away, to 
be met in the passage by a footman who was ushering a pa- 
tient into the doctor’s consulting room. 

This patient was a lady in black, who wore a crape veil 
over her face. On seeing Nance she stopped suddenly, and 
pulled up her veil. 

“What a sweet little girl you are!” she exclaimed, with a 
sort of irrepressible burst of admiration and pleasure. “ Who 
are you? Tell me your name.” 

“I am Nance, Dr. Digby ’s little girl.” 

“ My dear,” said the lady, “ I should so much like to have a 
kiss from you. Will you kiss me? 

“Of course I will, if you want me to. Are you unhappy? 
Your face is very pale.” 

“I do not feel unhappy, my dear, when I look at you.” 

“I am so glad of that. I am most awfully happy myself. 
We are just arranging to have a picnic on the Thames and 
my dearest friend is coming. She is a good deal older than 
me, but she is quite my dearest friend. Her name is Dorothy 
Sharpe. I am going to ride over now to see her. Do you 
happen to know Dorothy Sharpe?” 

“No, my little love. 1 must say good-by now. I am very 
glad you are so happy.” 


TWO DOCTORS AND TWO PATIENTS. 


181 


The lady blew a kiss to Nance with her thin hand. The 
child smiled up into her face once more, and then ran off to 
join her mother. 

When the door of the consulting room was closed behind 
this patient, she drew up her veil once more, then turned to 
Dr. Digby. 

“You must forgive my making a remark, sir,” she said, 
“ quite irrelevant to the object of my visit. I saw a little 
girl in a white dress in the passage ” 

“My little girl,” interrupted Dr. Digby. 

“Yes, she told me she was your little girl. Her face at- 
tracted me so powerfully that I was obliged to stop and speak 
to her. An irresistible impulse came over me then, and I 
asked her to kiss me. She kissed me — I kissed her. I have 
not kissed a child for fifteen years.” 

The doctor bowed. 

“Fifteen years ago,” continued the lady, “I kissed a dead 
child — my own. She was in her coffin, and there were flowers 
all over her. Some of them, rosebuds, were touching her 
white cheeks. I pushed them away and printed my own kiss 
there instead. Since that hour I have hated all children until 
I saw your child to-day. Your child has the face of an 
angel.” 

“Thank you,” replied Digby, “she is a very sweet child. 
I am glad to tell you, however, that she is quite a little 
earthly mortal. I trust she has the making of a good woman 
in her, and we have authority for believing that a good 
woman is higher than the angels. Now, may I learn the 
object of your visit?” 

He drew a chair forward, asked the lady to seat herself, and. 
began to ask her questions with regard to the state of her 
health. 

“I have come to you,” she said, “by the urgent entreaty 
of many of my friends. All those friends who know anything 
of the medical profession tell me that you are the very first 
authority of the day on consumption cases. I have not 
wished to come to you, for I have felt that you can do me no 
good. You see I am very frank. I have simply been worried 
into paying this visit. The importunity of my friends has 
prevailed, and I have said to myself, ‘After Dr. Digby has 
plainly told me how soon my restless and suffering life will 
come to an end, I shall cease to be tormented on the subject 
of possible and unwished-for cure. ’ ” 


182 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“ Unwished-for cure?” repeated the doctor, raising his 
brows. 

“Yes, my good sir, unwished-for cure. You ought to be 
glad that I say this, for, of course, you must see for yourself, 
even before you examine my lungs, that I am far gone in con- 
sumption.” 

“Has any other doctor told you this?” 

“No, because you are the first doctor that I have consented 
to see.” 

“ Will you unfasten your dress and let me apply my stetho- 
scope to your chest?” 

The lady pulled off her gloves, and with fingers that slightly 
shook did as the doctor bade her. 

He made the necessary examination, then as she was rear- 
ranging her dress, an unexpected remark came from his lips. 

“Your lungs are unaffected.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“ Simply what I say, my dear madam. I have examined 
your lungs most carefully, and they are absolutely free from 
the smallest trace of tubercular disease. You may be dying 
from some complaint too deep for even the cleverest doctor to 
fathom, but, as far as I can tell, you have no apparent disease 
of any sort.” 

The lady laughed in a harsh kind of way. The color 
came into her cheeks and then faded. Her eager, rather star- 
ing eyes became filled with a fierce light. 

“Your verdict is unwelcome,” she said shortly. “I am 
poor ; I hate poverty. I am a teacher ; I loathe teaching be- 
yond any other employment in the world. Every day I spend 
my life in the manner most uncongenial to me. I go from 
house to house, trying to drill knowledge into stupid girls 
and into stupider boys. I earn enough by this drudgery to 
keep body and soul together. My soul, which never gets 
the food it longs for, is hungry, savage, and starved. My 
body- aches day and night. Since my child died I have been 
seized with a passionate longing to follow her. This long- 
ing remains with me day and night. It follows me into my 
dreams, and colors all I do, and say, and think. For the last 
year I have noticed that my longing has begun to act on my 
bodily frame. I have grown most painfully thin, I have lost 
almost all appetite, I often cough. The hope became almost 
a conviction that I was really attacked by consumption. Dr. 
Digby, you are cruel to take my last hope away.” 


TWO DOCTORS AND TWO PATIENTS. 


183 


“ May I ask your name?” responded the doctor. 

“Grey is my name. Mrs. Grey.” 

“ Mrs. Grey, it is my duty to crush the wicked hope which 
animated your breast. You are unquestionably not consump- 
tive.” 

“Do you dare to call my hope wicked?” 

“I dare to call it very wicked.” 

“You do not know my story, or you would not speak in 
that positive way. You cannot guess what a weary, heavy 
burden life is to me.” 

Rigby’s manner suddenly changed; his face grew tender, 
his eyes full of sympathy. 

“Believe me,” he said, “that I can guess — believe that 
I do fully sympathize w T ith you, but also believe me when 
I say that life is a very precious gift given to you by the 
Almighty to be used worthily. My dear madam, it is wicked, 
it is morbid, it is absolutely wrong to be in a hurry to part 
with such a priceless boon as life. You can make much of it 
even yet. You are a teacher, you tell me. In that case, you 
are thrown with the young.” 

The lady moved impatiently in her chair. 

“Yes, yes,” she retorted, “people are very fond of recount- 
ing the charms of youth. To me, youth means stupidity, 
a want of consideration, a barbarous and prodigal use of fleet- 
ing strength.” 

“If those are your sentiments,” said Digby, “you are a 
very unfit person to train boys and girls. Your own soul 
must be frightfully ajar when you can speak as you do. Shall 
I tell you why your body is ill? Because of the state of your 
soul. Your soul, or your mind — it is all the same — is in a 
state of unrest, of strain, of open rebellion.” 

“ What do you mean?” Mrs. Grey fixed her eager eyes on 
Digby’s face. 

“What I say is true,” he answered tenderly. “Now, I 
can offer you no prescription for your body, the cure lies 
with yourself; but as you have come to me I should like to 
apply some of my knowledge, some of my great experience 
of human life, to your diseased mind. Will you listen to 
me?” 

“Yes, I will listen. Doctor, I believe you are both an 
honest and a good man.” 

“I hope I am honest. As to being good, that is neither 
here nor there. I am a man who has seen many phases of 


184 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


life, and sometimes the great privilege and happiness has been 
given to me to say a few words of strength to souls groping 
in the dark. Your soul is one of these. It is one of the facts, 
Mrs. Grey, that science renders more and more plain, day by 
day, that mind reacts on body. Your body at present is 
healthy, but how long it will remain so while you persist in 
kicking against the pricks of circumstances it is impossible 
for me to decide. Your life is more or less in your own 
hands; you will be doing a very wicked deed if you throw 
it away. If you follow my prescription you will become a 
strong woman, and may live to do good in the world.” 

“ What is your prescription?” 

“ Before I give it I will ask you a question or two. I 
presume you are a widow?” 

“I am worse than a widow: my husband deserted me many 
years ago.” 

“Ah, that is a very bitter fact for you to dwell upon. 
But your courage will be all the better if you rise above it. 
You are poor?” 

“I have no money expect what I earn, and teaching is not 
a lucrative profession.” 

“I know. What about your children?” 

“I had one child, she died fifteen years ago.” 

“Poor soul!” responded the doctor. “ Circumstances have 
undoubtedly been hard on you. But with regard to your 
child, you are not without hope.” 

“ Hope. What can you mean?” 

“Your child has gone into a higher state of existence — she 
is still yours — you must live up to her. No medicine will do 
you so much good in all the world as the constantly recurring 
thought, ‘I have a child with God, and I am determined to 
live worthy of her. ’ ” 

Mrs. Grey’s eyes filled with tears. 

“Thank you,” she said softly. “That is a good thought. 
I will try and hold on to that thought when despair seizes 
me. It is nice to believe that I can still do something for 
my child.” 

“Remember that thought when you are teaching other 
children,” said Digby. “Try and fancy yourself — what I 
firmly believe will be the truth — nearer to your own child 
when you help other children to be better. Forget yourself, 
if possible. Live for the children you teach. Look at them 
from a new point of view, and they will cease to be common- 


TWO DOCTORS AND TWO PATIENTS. 


185 


place. I can only give you general directions, but love — 
love to God, love to your dead child — will point out the way. 
Wish to live — cease to desire to die. As long as God leaves 
the breath in your body He gives you work. Work for him, 
work for your child. When you meet her by and by she will 
look for a beautiful mother : don’t disappoint her. Now I 
must say good-by. No fee, Mrs. Grey ; pay me by follow- 
ing my advice.” 

“You are a good man,” replied Mrs. Grey. “Men like you 
make life possible. You have given me a hard task, but I 
will try and remember your words.” Blinding tears rolled 
down her cheeks, she pulled her veil over her eyes, and 
turned away. 

After she went out of the room the doctor sighed once or 
twice. 

“ Poor woman !” he said to himself. “ Have I at all lifted 
the curtain of suffering from her heart? I had a hard task 
with her. I would fifty times rather have told her that she 
would join her child in a month or two.” 

Digby’s next patient was of a totally different type. A 
fine looking, man between fifty and sixty years of age, with 
a face of marked intellect, came into the room. The servant 
handed Digby his card. He took it up, and read the name 
—Sir Henry Marshall, K. C. B. 

“Sit down, Sir Henry,” said Digby. “Now, what can 
I do for you?” 

“ I want you to give my heart a careful examination. I 

have been to several London physicians, in especial ” He 

paused. “ The fact is, I have heard of you from the Sharpes.” 
He paused again. 

“I know Lady Sharpe very well,” said Digby. 

“Yes; I dined there last night, and she spoke of you — she 
urged me to come to you. She assured me that you would 
give me an absolutely truthful verdict.” 

“ 5Tou ought to get that from any doctor.” 

“I believe you, but the word ‘ ought ’ is not always con- 
sidered in cases like mine. I come to you asking for a 
straightforward opinion of my case. Will you examine me?” 

“ Certainly, if you wish it. But it is only right to tell you 
that I don’t make affections of the heart my speciality.” 

“I am aware of that fact, but still your opinion would be 
of value to me.” 

“I will examine your heart,” said Digby, 


186 


THE MEDICINE LADY 


“ Thank you. First of all, I must tell you that other med- 
ical men, after careful examination, have told me that the 
symptoms from which I suffer are not of an alarming char- 
acter.” 

“What are the symptoms?” 

“A sensation of faintness after any exertion, breathless- 
ness at night, and now and then, at any moment, day or night, 
quick and sharp pain. I saw a physician yesterday. His 
words were most reassuring, but there was something in his 
manner which might have gone down with a woman, but 
which — well, to be frank with you, I didn’t believe in him. 
He told me that my sensations were mainly attributable to 
a slight weakness of the heart and to a certain form of indi- 
gestion. I went home, and yesterday I dined with the 
Sharpes. Dorothy Sharpe spoke of you; Lady Sharpe and 
her husband also mentioned you. On all hands I heard one 
report: ‘He tells the unvarnished truth.’ It is most impor- 
tant for me at the present moment to know the truth. I have 
just been offered a very valuable government appointment in 
rather an unhealthy part of India. I did not want to take my 
wife and children there. If I accept this appointment, I shall 
be parted from them for a few years. The advantages, how- 
ever, are so many that I am disposed to go if I can take with 
me a clean bill of health. If your verdict differs from that 
formed by — by other men, I shall abide by it, and not accept 
the appointment. Now, Dr. Digby, I have explained the 
position. I leave myself in your hands.” 

“You had better consult a heart specialist. This is a very 
important matter.” 

“I canplease myself about consulting someone else later on. 
Now, I wish for your verdict.” 

“You shall have it. Rest assured that I will be perfectly 
frank with you.” 

Digby took a considerable time making his examination. 
At last it was over. He sat down in his chair, and Sir Henry 
fixed his eyes on his face. 

“Well, well,” asked the patient, “your truthful verdict?” 

Digby looked grave. 

“We doctors ” he began. 

“No, no, don’t preamble. I want the simple, unvarnished 
truth.” 

“ The simple, unvarnished truth is this, Sir Henry Marshall : 
You must not accept that foreign appointment.” 


TWO DOCTORS AND TWO PATIENTS. 


187 


“ Ah ! I thought as much. ” Sir Henry turned pale. “ Then 
that fellow next door lied to me !” 

“Do you mean to say that you have consulted Dr. 
Phillips?” asked Digby. 

“ I have. I am one of his patients. What is that to 
you?” 

“ Only this : I should not have examined you had I known 
it.” 

Sir Henry laughed. 

“I took care that you didn’t know it,” he said. “I know 
all about your beastly medical etiquette, and I was determined 
to keep the fact that I had previously consulted Dr. Phillips to 
myself. Y ou are absolutely blameless in the matter. Now for 
your verdict. Why may I not accept that foreign appoint- 
ment?” 

Digby rose from his chair. 

“I have never swerved from a certain opinion,” he said. 
“It is this: Consulting physicians should always tell the un- 
varnished truth to their patients. In my practice as a consult- 
ing doctor I have never diverged from this plan. More than 
one patient has come to me to whom I have been forced to 
say, ‘It is my painful duty to acquaint you with the fact that 
life and the things of life are practically over for you.’ 
There may be reasons why a family physician will think it 
best to suppress this knowledge in all its fulnesS.” 

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Sir Henry. “I know, without 
your saying any more, that your verdict in my case will be an 
evil one.” 

“That depends upon how you take it, Sir Henry. Just 
before you came into this room a lady sat in that chair. She 
begged of me to tell her how soon kind death would come and 
set her free from her miseries. I had to say to her, ‘Prepare 
to live.’ To you, Sir Henry Marshall, another message is 
given.” 

“Yes, I know, I know,” said Sir Henry. He took his hand- 
kerchief out of his pocket, and wiped his pale face. “Life 
is full of attractions to me,” he continued. “How long — how 
long do you give me before the inevitable arrives?” 

“ It is impossible for me to tell you that. You are suffer- 
ing from a dangerous disease of the heart. The aortic valve, 
the most important of all the heart valves, is seriously affected. 
Should this cause your death, when it comes it will be sud- 
den and probably painless.” 


188 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


It took but a moment or two for Sir Henry to recover his 
composure. Then he said : 

“I won’t deny that you have dealt me a blow.” 

“It has given me great pain to deal it to you,” answered 
Digby. 

“ Pray don’t apologize. I came here for an honest opinion ; 
I have got it. Good-day, sir.” 

“I must add that I am sorry you consulted me. Phillips 
is my next door neighbor, and his wife and my wife are 
friends. I should have preferred that a stranger had seen his 
patient.” 

“ Oh, if it puts you out, I will make it straight with him. 
I will tell him that you are blameless. By Jove! though, 
what a liar the fellow must be. Either he is a liar or he is an 
incompetent doctor.” 

“Do not be hard upon him; he may have hidden the truth 
from you for matters of expediency. Doctors do not always 
reveal the full hideousness of the skeleton.” 

“He is not even a family doctor. I came to him as I came 
to you — for a consultation. I repeat, I have no patience with 
him. Now, good-day, sir.” 

“Do not trouble about seeing Dr. Phillips,” said Digby. 
“I will talk the matter over with him myself. Now, would 
you not like me to give you a few directions?” 

“Directions?” repeated Sir Henry. “I do not think they 
are necessary. I know the sort of thing that is always said 
to men who have incurable heart disease. ‘Never hurry, take 
care of your digestion, keep your mind calm, bar the door 
against anxieties.’ Oh, pshaw! I shall not mind all that 
humbug.” 

“It is not humbug, Sir Henry Marshall. By following 
such simple directions as you have yourself quoted you may 
keep death at bay for many a long year.” 

“ Thanks. That is your idea of a life of enjoyment? The 
sword of Damocles forever hanging over my head? I prefer 
not. I shall decline the foreign appointment and spend what 
time is left me with my wife and children. For that period, 
be it long or short, we will eat, drink, and be merry.” 

“Your feelings may alter as time goes on,” said Digby. 
“It is one of the facts taught by experience that men and 
women get accustomed to anything. The knowledge that you 
may die suddenly will not affect you greatly in three months’ 
time. I knew a man with a heart like yours ten years ago. 


THE TALK OF THE CLUB. 


189 


He is alive now, and, for aught I can tell, may continue to 
live for another ten years.” 

“ Or he may die to-morrow?” said Sir Henry. 

“Quite so; he may die to-day or to-morrow.” 

“You are an honest man. I respect you. Your friend next 
door is a humbug.” 

“My acquaintance,” corrected Higby. 

Sir Henry laughed. 

“ Ah ! I did not suppose you and that humbug would be 
friends. What communion is there between light and dark- 
ness? Good-by, Dr. Digby ; I shall be sure to bring any of 
my family, if they happen to be ill, to see you. Here is your 
fee. My thanks — my sincere thanks.” 


CHAPTER III. 

THE TALK OF TIIE CLUB. 

“Is anything the matter, James?” asked Dr. Phillips’s 
pretty wife. He was standing by the window in their large 
and beautifully furnished drawing room. Helen Phillips, a 
slim and childish looking creature still, looked timidly up at 
him as she spoke. 

“Nothing, nothing,” he replied pettishly. “A man need 
not wear a continual smile, need he, Helen?” 

“Oh, no; it is not that. I have learned to read your face, 
James.” 

“Then unlearn the accomplishment, my dear. I hate having 
my face studied.” 

Helen gave a sigh, quickly smothered. She was a pretty 
woman, essentially pretty, but her face, still childish in out- 
line, looked to those who knew her well a little hard. The 
eyes wore a strained expression, and the smile round the lips 
was too habitual to be absolutely pleasing. 

Phillips glanced at his wife in a half contemptuous way. 

“What a small creature you are!” he said, chucking her 
under the chin. “You don’t grow either in mind or body. 
How long is it since I married you? Let me see, over seven 
years ago. You were eighteen then, you are twenty-five now. 
You look eighteen still, with a difference.” 

“What do you mean, James?” 

“I mean this. Anyone who knew you well would say, 
‘Something has stopped that woman’s development,’ that is 


190 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


all. Now I am going down to my study for an hour or two. 
For goodness’ sake don’t follow me, and don’t imagine there 
is the smallest thing wrong.” 

“I am sorry I spoke, James. You have a habit of — of 
crushing me; that is why I have never grown. Oh, I don’t 
complain; I love you dearly, and you are never really unkind 
to me, but you won’t let me talk to you as Cecilia talks to her 
husband. If Laurence Digby’s face looked careworn he 
would allow Cecilia to remark on it. He would not pretend, 
that there was nothing the matter.” 

A great color came into Helen’s cheeks as she was speaking. 
The color brought sparkles to her eyes, and the habitual 
smile round her lips was changed to an expression of petulance 
and pain. Phillips watched her as she spoke — her words 
were little or nothing to him, but the swift change in her 
face aroused his passing admiration. 

“It is all a matter of looks,” he said. “Your friend Cecilia 
shows her soul when she speaks — a thousand emotions flit 

across her face, whereas you ! I should like to know what 

man likes to confide in a doll? Look as you did this moment, 
my love, and you will win confidence from me when I have 
any to give.” 

“James,” said his wife, “you have no right to compare me 
to a doll. I thought you loved me when you married me.” 

“ Don’t begin that stupid old tune, Helen ; of course I loved 
you. I will frankly confess that I thought there was more in 
you than there has turned out to be. But it is impossible 
for anyone to exceed the limits assigned to them. Your 
brain is small and good, your nature is small and' good. You 
are excellent as far as you go, but you don’t go very far. 
Talk about Digby confiding in his wife i Good God ! if I had 
married that woman, shouldn’t I, too, confide in her? Had 
your friend Cecilia been my wife we should have had a great 
future together. The fact is, all marriages are not made in 
heaven. Digby was mated wrong, and his wife was mated 
wrong; she is thrown away on a man like Digby. He is 
too — too scrupulous. He does not see the advantage he 
possesses in a wife with such a splendid intellect.” 

Helen gazed at her husband in absolute wonder. 

“You won’t make me jealous of Cecilia,” she said at last, 
in her rather thin but sweet voice. “ I love her more and 
more every year, and I am truly glad that you admire her. 
I don’t profess to understand the queer things you say now 


THE TALK OF THE CLUB. 


191 


and then; I can’t help not being very clever. But one thing 
does pain me, James. Your tone seems to imply that you are 
not happy — that you are not satisfied.” 

“Satisfied!” retorted Phillips. “Who would be satisfied 
with mediocrity? There, Helen, don’t keep me, I am going 
down to my study. I have some work to get through.” 

“You must not leave me in this fashion,” she exclaimed, 
roused to a passing fit of unhappiness by his taunting words. 
“ I shall cry all the time you are away from me if you leave 
me like this. You must tell me why you are unhappy.” 

“I never said 1 was unhappy.” 

“Why you are not satisfied.” 

“Helen, look here.” James Phillips put his two hands 
on his wife’s slim shoulders; he turned her round so that the 
light fell on her small face. “Look here,” he said, giving her 
a little shake as he spoke, “I will just lift the corner of the 
curtain and give you a peep at the heart in my breast ; if you 
don’t like the picture, it is your own fault. I am devoured 
by jealousy. I hate Laurence Digby ! He has got everything, 
I have nothing.” 

“Nothing, James, nothing? Please don’t pinch my 
shoulders like that. You have lots of money, and everyone 
says how handsome you are, and all your patients like you, 
and you have more patients than you know how to visit, and 
your house is beautiful, and people speak of me as a good 
and pretty wife. What can you want more?” 

“Poor Helen,” said Phillips, releasing his grasp of his wife, 
“that is all you know. I want a child, for one thing. You 
have no child.” 

“Oh, don’t! you hurt me,” she said, turning away as he 
said this. She went up to the window, and stood against 
the curtain, her slim figure trembling. 

“ Digby has one child,” continued Phillips. “He will have 
trouble over that child. She won’t live — quite safe not to live 
— but for the present she is a sunbeam in his house, lie has 
a wife who grows more beautiful every day. Oh ! I have 
nothing to say against your looks, Helen. You are pretty, you 
are always pretty; your eyes are always bright, your cheeks 
have roses in them every hour of the day. You are irre- 
proachable in your dress, and your smile is most ladylike. A 
man glances at you. ‘What a pretty woman!’ he exclaims; 
‘how sweetly she smiles!’ He looks away. Again he looks 
up. Still the pretty woman, still the smile. His attention is 


192 


TEE MEDICINE LADY. 


diverted, but be glances back again by and by. The roses 
are still in your cheeks, the identical smile plays round your 
lips, your eyes stare at him as a doll’s bright, empty eyes 
might stare. He gets tired of that unvarying expression. 
Can you blame him, poor wretch? Man is a creature who 
needs various foods. 

“Digby’swife is also pretty — perhaps, in the strictest sense 
of the word, not so pretty as you. Her nose, for instance — 
we will say nothing about her nose. Her eyes, too; they 
are not so dark. Well, she also goes out, and a man notices 
her. He says in passing, ‘What an erect carriage! what a 
sweet, proud face!’ He looks away, but, impelled by some- 
thing, he bestows another glance. The face looks thunderous 
now, the eyes shine with passion, the color comes and goes in 
the cheeks. He says to himself, ‘By Jove! I shouldn’t like 
to have much to say to that woman.’ But behold, in another 
instant he sees her bending over her child — her face has the 
tenderness of a Madonna, her smile is divine in its beauty. 
That woman has a thousand moods, a thousand glances to be- 
stow upon the man she loves. My dear, my dear, you can’t 
understand my talk, can you?” 

“No, James. I think you must be getting fever or some- 
thing of that sort. You are talking in a very wild, queer 
way. I will forgive you, for I know you are really fond of 
me; but that kind of talk about Cecilia seems very foolish, 
and I didn’t listen to half you said.” 

“ What a blessed little thing you are, Nell !” Phillips went 
up to Helen and kissed her. “After all,” he said, “there are 
certain blessings that accompany a commonplace wife. Had 
1 said the kind of things to Cecilia Digby that I said to you 
just now, I should be in danger of being stabbed to-night; 
whereas yow, you good-natured little butterfly, you don’t even 
take in my torrent of abuse.” 

“But you do love me, James?” 

“Yes, yes, my dear. You are the best little soul.” 

“I’d give anything to have a child, too.” 

“We’ll drop that subject, if you please.” 

“James, did you order the steam launch?” 

“Yes. I wrote about it.” 

“Shall I read you the list of guests I have invited?” 

“No, it doesn’t matter. You can ask whom you please.” 

“ I thought we might as well ask the Marshalls — you know 
Sir Henry is your new patient. We dined at their house 


THE TALK OF THE CLUB. 


193 


last week, and Lady Marshall and Violet and Daisy would be 
very glad to come. We might ask Mr. Dacre, too. He 
seemed very attentive to Violet Marshall the other evening.” 

“That’s right, Helen. You will make a capital little 
matchmaker. I am rather pleased at your idea of including 
the Marshalls among the guests. You have some sense in 
your small pate.” 

“By the way, James, I saw Sir Henry Marshall’s carriage 
this morning at the Digbys’ door.” 

Phillips colored. 

“At the Digbys’ door, my dear?” he said. “You must 
have made a mistake.” 

“No, I am quite positive. I happened to be standing on 
the balcony at the time. It was about half past eleven this 
morning, and I saw the Marshalls’ carriage drive up. I knew 
it by the servants’ livery, and, of course, T expected it to stop 
at our door, but to my surprise it drew up at forty-eight, and 
I saw Sir Henry get out. He went into the house, and stayed 
there about half an hour. I was in the balcony again when 
he came out. I watched him get into ms carriage. He 
looked very queer — as if he was ill. Is Sir Henry Marshall 
very ill, James?” 

“Not that I know of. At least — of course, men don’t 
consult doctors if they are quite well. Sir Henry must have 
called to see Digby as a friend; although it was a strange 
hour, and I never knew that they were acquaintances.” 

The drawing-room door was opened, and a servant came up 
and spoke to Phillips. 

“ Mr. Duke is in the consulting room, sir. lie wishes to 
see you for a minute or two.” 

“Excuse me,” Phillips said to his wife. “I shall not be 
long. I hope Mrs. Duke is no worse.” 

He ran downstairs, entered his consulting room, and shut 
the door behind him. 

The Dukes were some of his best patients. He was, there- 
fore, particularly polite to the man who now stood by his 
table and apologized for troubling him at so late an hour. 

“It is nothing of much importance,” said Mr. Duke, “but 
my wife got rather fidgety. She asked me to call about that 
last prescription.” He then described a certain effect which 
the medicine had produced on his wife. 

“I will alter one of the ingredients,” said Phillips. “Mrs. 
Duke’s experience is a very common one.” 


194 


TIIE MEDICINE LADY. 


He sat down by his table, took up a pen, made the neces* 
sary alterations, and returned the paper to Mr. Duke. 

“By the way,” remarked that gentleman, “I have just left 
the club to come in to see you. Were you there this even- 
ing?” 

“No, I happened [to be particularly busy; I don’t often 
visit my club in the evening.” 

“Sir Henry Marshall was there. You know him, don’t 
you?” 

Phillips remembered Helen’s words. An intuition of some- 
thing unpleasant suddenly seized him. He changed color, 
and answered in an interested but guarded tone. 

“I know Marshall,” he said. “Mrs. Phillips and I dined at 
his house a fortnight ago.” 

“Well, it seems that Sir Henry was offered the Governor- 
ship of Guawliow, in the Burnhay Presidency. It was a first- 
class appointment, and he was all agog to be off (an ambi- 
tious fellow, Sir Henry, very). He was at the club to-night 
in no end of a rage — I never saw anyone in such a pepper in 
my life. Very bad for him, I should say.” 

“ But what was he angry about?” asked Phillips. “May I 
offer you a cigar, Duke?” 

“Thanks.” There was a brief pause. Phillips repeated 
his question. 

“ What raised Sir Henry’s ire?” he asked. “I know the 
man; he interests me.” 

“ He has a great deal to say for himself — he is a clever 
fellow, very. Well, the cause of the rumpus was this. He 
had been to some doctor here, in this very street — fancied he 
had got heart disease — you know how nervous some fellows 
get on that point. The doctor assured him that he was sound 
as a bell. Sir Henry went off, apparently satisfied, but as his 
uneasy sensations continued, and the acceptance of the ap- 
pointment hung in the balance, he thought he’d see Digby. 
You know Digby, of course, your next-door neighbor — 
everyone knows that he’s about the brusquest man in the pro- 
fession. Well, he examined Sir Henry this morning, and told 
him practically that he was a doomed man. Sir Henry has 
refused the appointment, and is telling the story all over the 
place, with additions, no doubt. What is the matter, Phillips? 
You look pale.” 

“I may well look pale,” retorted Phillips. “I happen to 
be the doctor whom Sir Henry first consulted.” 


THE TALK OF THE CLUB. 


195 


“ By Jove ! You don’t mean to say you told him there was 
nothing up with him?” 

“ There are cases when it is much the wisest thing for a 
doctor to conceal the truth.” 

“Do you think so? I cannot say that I agree with you. 
Did he tell you that he was going to India?” 

“Yes. He’d have been as well in India as here.” 

“Digby seemed to think differently. I must say frankly 
that I think Digby was right to make no bones about the 
matter. You must forgive me, Phillips, but it does seem the 
most straightforward thing to let a man know when he is on 
the brink of a precipice. He leaps over all the sooner by being 
kept in the dark. Good-night, good-night. I wouldn’t have 
told you, of course, if I had any idea that you were the man, 
but Sir Henry is making the deuce of a row — I never saw 
anyone in a greater rage.” 

“It is unpleasant, of course,” said Phillips, in his calmest 
tone, “ but I did my duty according to my light, and no man 
can do more.” 

“No, if that is your way of looking at it. Well, good- 
night, again. I will get this prescription made up for my 
wife. It’s all right now, isn’t it?” 

“Perfectly right.” 

Mr. Duke went away, but Phillips did not return to his 
wife. He paced up and down his consulting room with some 
of the feelings that may be supposed to occupy the breast of 
a caged tiger. After a time he sat down and scribbled a few 
lines to Digby : 

“My Dear Digby: A patient of mine has just called. He 
has given me a piece of gossip which] I confess is somewhat 
unpleasant. Perhaps you can set matters straight; at any 
rate I should like to have full particulars with regard to your 
interview with Sir Henry Marshall this morning. You can 
scarcely have been unaware of the fact that he was one of my 
patients. It seems that he is making a fuss at his club over 
the different diagnoses of two well-known West End doctors. 

“Yours truly, 

“James Phillips.” 

The note was put into an envelope and directed. Phillips 
sounded a gong on his table, and the servant who answered 
the summons was desired to take it to No. 48, and wait for 


196 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


an answer. The reply came back in less than ten min- 
utes: 

“ My Dear Phillips : I am sorry that Marshall is talking 
of this matter. It was an unfortunate dilemma, but I can 
clear myself from any wish to deprive you of a patient by 
telling you the simple fact that I had not the least idea Sir 
Henry Marshall had ever consulted you until after I had ex- 
amined his heart. He told me then that he had done so, and 
gave me at the same time an account of your diagnosis. It 
was impossible for me to conceal the fact from him that I re- 
garded his case in a totally different light. I told Sir Henry 
Marshall what I believe to be the truth, that he is a doomed 
man. 

“ Yours, 

“Laurence Digby.” 

All the demon in Phillips’s heart leaped into his eyes as he 
read this letter. He walked up and down his room several 
times. Cold beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead, 
and his great frame absolutely shook with the anger which ran 
through his veins. 

His first impulse was to refuse to believe Digby ’s state- 
ment that he had examined Sir Henry in ignorance of the fact 
that he was Phillips’s patient, but his anger did not grow 
less when he was forced to admit that Digby was the last man 
in the world to do anything discourteous to a brother phy- 
sician. He hated Digby for taking his patient from him, 
and he hated him all the more because he knew in his heart 
that Digby was- really blameless in the matter. 

The facts of the case were these : 

Phillips was one of those doctors w T ho prophesy smooth 
things. Such men are often popular in the profession, and 
with a very large class of patients, whose diseases may be set 
down as nervous affections, his diagnosis was often attended 
with the happiest results. Phillips had been much pleased 
when Sir Henry Marshall, a man of considerable distinction, 
called to see him. He read the man’s fears in his eyes, and 
determined to allay them. Phillips did not possess Digby ’s 
accurate ear, but he was well aware that the opinion which 
he uttered was a false one; Sir Henry’s heart was in anything 
but a healthy condition. Sir Henry asked him the truth, and 
Phillips looked in his face and told him a direct lie. Had 


THE TALK OF THE CLUB. 


197 


Phillips even guessed for an instant that his patient of to- 
day would become Laurence Digby’s patient of to-morrow, 
his verdict would have been a different one. This remote 
possibility had never for a moment flashed through his brain. 
He was thunderstruck, alarmed, fiercely angry. In his anger 
he was unjust ; he made up his mind to treat Digby as if he 
did not believe him. 

Phillips had little or no sense of honor, and he wondered if 
he could make a good story out of this. It might be possible 
for him to write a letter to the Lancet or the Medical Journal 
— a letter which would show up the case in a doubtful light, 
and render Digby’s position an unpleasant one. 

Phillips had a certain knack of writing cleverly. It did 
not take him an instant to compose a venomous and wither- 
ingly sarcastic letter in his own mind. He muttered the sen- 
tences half aloud as they formed themselves in his brain. 

He would state a general case, and ask for the opinions of 
the Press. Digby’s name, of course, should be withheld, but 
such a thin veil would be cast over his identity that his 
brothers in the profession would read through the disguise 
at a glance. 

A savage gleam came into Phillips’s eyes as the results of his 
letter came before him in imagination. He thought to him- 
self of the many nice points which it would raise with regard 
to one doctor completely setting aside the known diagnosis 
of another. Phillips fancied that his letter would excite a 
wide correspondence, that this correspondence would help to 
degrade Digby and lower him in his profession. 

“Yes,” he said to himself, “I will not believe for a mo- 
ment that talk about not knowing. I am almost sure that he 
has heard me speak of Sir Henry as one of my latest patients 
— he didn’t choose to know. He was but too glad to take 
my patient, and to humiliate me in his eyes. Had he acted 
uprightly, he would have refused to give Sir Henry Marshall 
an opinion. This is my reward after all I have done for 
him! Yes, I will write to the Lancet , I will write to- 
night.” 

But, as Phillips sat at his desk, other thoughts came to mit- 
igate the rapture with which he had received his daring idea 
of revenge. Digby had always been indifferent to the opin- 
ions of other doctors. When censured he would be the first 
to defend himself, and armed with that horrible sledge ham- 
mer of truth, which he was well known always to carry, he 


198 THE MEDICINE LADY. 

might, in his turn, make unpleasant disclosures with regard 
to Phillips. 

For Phillips to examine a man’s heart and pronounce it 
sound, and for Digby the very next day to discover that that 
same heart was affected with a fatal disease, would be any- 
thing but a pleasant episode to get talked about. 

Phillips knew in his heart that, whether Digby was liked by 
his brethren or the reverse, his opinion would be regarded 
without a moment’s hesitation as the correct verdict. 

Phillips threw down his pen as these thoughts rushed 
through his mind, and again began to pace his room. 

Suddenly a fresh idea came to him. He resolved to act 
upon it at once. After all, he might work this thing to his 
best advantage. He opened the study door, and ran up to the 
drawing room. 

“Helen,” he said, “put something over your head and 
come in with me to see the Digbys.” 

“Why, James,” she said, looking up at him in astonish- 
ment, “surely not to-night? It is nearly ten o’clock.” 

“ What of that? Where is the use of being neighbors if we 
are not friendly? Come along, do not stand there with that 
moonstruck expression on your face. Here, you can put this 
lace shawl over your head. Come, what are you lingering 
for?” 

“ If we must go, I thought I should like to take these wools 
and silks in to show Cecilia. Have you seen them? The 
shades are exquisite.” 

“My dear, what do I know of shades of wool?” 

“Well, Cecilia will like to look at them. Wait a minute, 
James. I want to wrap them up in this piece of paper. 
Cecilia has such lovely taste that I should like to ask her 
opinion about my embroidery.” 

“You will do nothing of the kind. Leave the wools and 
silks where they are. Listen to me, Helen. When you get 
into that drawing room you are to set your woman’s wits to 
work — you are to help me, do you hear?” 

“To help you? My dear James, you know I shall be de- 
lighted.” 

“ I am glad to hear it. You are to use the amount of brains 
allotted to you to their utmost. Talk to Digby, and keep 
him at the other end of the drawing room. I want to say 
something to your friend, Cecilia. It is important, and I do 
not wish anyone to hear. Now, come along.” 


THE TALK OF THE CLUB. 


199 


A frightened look crept over Helen Phillips’s face. She 
left her wools and silks on the little work-table by her own 
special chair, wrapped her scarf round her head, and accom- 
panied her husband to No. 48. 

The clock from the neighboring church struck ten as the 
two mounted the steps. 

The weather was hot at this time — the period of the year 
was midsummer. The Digbys were sitting in their balcony, 
but came into the drawing room when Phillips and his wife 
were announced. 

“This is really good of you,” said Digby, shaking hands 
with Helen, and then taking Phillips cordially by the hand. 
“ I am delighted to see you, Phillips — I am anxious to explain 
that matter you wrote to me about. Will you come down to 
my consulting room?” 

“I do not think it is necessary to enter into the subject to- 
night,” said Phillips, in a gentle, restrained sort of voice. 
“Your letter gave the one all-important explanation. You 
did not know that Sir Henry was my patient. We will talk 
over the case to-morrow, if you have no objection, but to-night ! 
— I have a prejudice against bringing my patients’ names on 
the tapis in a drawing room. I like to forget all about them 
when I am not in the consulting room or the hospital.” 

“I doubt, for my part,” said Digby, “if a doctor can ever 
allow the somber mantle of knowledge to drop from his shoul- 
ders, but, as you wish it, we will defer our talk until to- 
morrow.” 

Cecilia was standing at the other end of the drawing room. 
Helen was looking into her face and chatting in her light, 
easy way. Occasionally Cecilia laughed, and Helen smiled up 
at her, lost in the love and admiration which she always felt 
for her friend. 

Digby allowed no gas in his drawing room, but plenty of 
shaded lamps shed their softened light over the scene. Wax 
candles were lit here and there on brackets, the piano stood 
open, and little Nance’s violin — the child had a passion for 
music — lay upon a chair. 

No room could look more homelike, more rich with the wealth 
of money and the greater wealth of intelligence and love. 

The two men walked up the drawing room. Phillips im- 
mediately addressed a question to Cecilia. He moved aside 
two or three steps as he did so, and she was forced, some- 
what unwillingly, to follow him. 


200 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“Dr. Digby,” said Helen, a nervous tremor in her voice, 
“do you know anything whatever of the arrangement of 
blues and greens in an embroidery pattern?” 

“I cannot say I do, Mrs. Phillips. On such pure*/ 
domestic matters you must consult my wife. Cecilia, my 
love.” 

But Cecilia’s ears were not given to Digby just then. 

“I am anxious to say a word to you,” said Phillips. 

“What about?” she asked, astonishment in her tone. 

“A matter of importance. Will you come on the balcony 
for a moment? The night is warm.” 

Digby felt a passing wonder as Phillips and Cecilia, stepped 
on the balcony, but Helen’s evident and unwonted nervous- 
ness arrested his attention. 

He said to himself : 

“ The poor little woman has something on hev mind. She 
is not remarkable for genius at any time, but I never heard 
her talk in quite so disjointed a fashion as she is doing to- 
night.” 

Helen went on stammering futile little remarks about her 
embroidery. Digby said cheerfully : 

“I cannot counsel you. The matter lies altogether in your 
woman’s kingdom, into which I never knowingly enter. I 
have something to show you; come and look at Nance’s last 
photograph.” 

Helen exclaimed in relief, and Digby and she went to the 
other end of the drawing room. Phillips and Cecilia were 
now, to all intents and purposes, alone. 

On this special evening Cecilia wore a long, perfectly 
plain dress of ivory silk. Her bright hair was coiled round 
her head without any attempt at ornament. Her high, white 
dress was fastened at the throat with a pearl brooch. As 
she looked up at Phillips in the moonlight, her slender figure, 
her rather pale face, and the dark shadows which even a pass- 
ing fear brought out under her eyes, gave her that spiritual 
look which now and then seemed to surround her like a sort of 
mystery. 

Phillips felt his admiration increase, but he was also sensible 
of a dim fear as he talked to her. 

“Do you know,” he said suddenly, “that your husband did 
me a serious injury to-day?” 

“My husband? Laurence injured you? Quite impossible.” 

“A fact, nevertheless, Mrs. Digby. A most patent fact. 


TEE TALK OF THE CLUB. 


201 


My patient, Sir Henry Marshall, came to this house. He 
asked Digby to give him a medical opinion without telling 
him that he had previously consulted me. Digby examined 
Sir Henry and, most unfortunately, reversed my verdict in 
each particular.” 

“Because your verdict was wrong.” 

Phillips colored angrily. 

“That is a wife’s way of putting it,” he said. “Your hus- 
band made his examination before he knew the true facts of 
the case, but he did not give his verdict before he knew that 
Sir Henry was my patient. When he knew, he should have 
withheld his own opinion unless it coincided with mine. The 
whole matter is very unpleasant, and your husband has done 
me an irreparable injury.” 

“ I fail to see how. My husband naturally gave a truthful 
verdict. Truth has always been the first consideration in his 
mind; at the same time, he would willingly injure no one. 
Go and talk the matter over with him; he will soon set things 
straight for you.” 

“He can never set things straight. Sir Henry is speaking 
of the matter already. It will be noised aboard in the pro- 
fession that Dr. Phillips said one thing of Sir Henry Marshall 
and Dr. Digby said another. I will admit to you, Mrs. 
Digby, that your husband stands higher as a medical man 
than I do.” 

Cecilia’s eyes gleamed with sudden pleasure. 

“You admit that now?” she said. “There was a time 
when you did not think so well of my husband.” 

“ There was never a time that I did not in my heart think 
him the cleverest and most original man I knew. You do 
not suppose, however, that we like the people we are bound 
to admit in our secret souls to be our superiors?” 

“I confess I do not understand you. Why do you talk to 
me about this?” 

“Because you alone can give me reparation.” 

“ Reparation for what? I fail to see where you have been 
injured. You make a complaint without cause; my husband 
did not willingly deprive you of a patient, but, even if he 
did, you surely are not so poor and not so unknown as to feel 
the loss to any considerable extent.” 

“ Good heavens !” retoiled Phillips. “ The loss of a patient 
is a mere flea-bite. It is absolutely nothing to me if I never 
see Sir Henry again. Can you not understand where the in- 


202 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


jury lies? It lies in the fact that your husband made one 
diagnosis and I made the opposite.” 

“ Oh,” said Cecilia, a proud light coming into her eyes, 
“ this is not the first time that my husband has proved his 
knowledge superior to yours.” 

“Mrs. Digby, I confess it. Your husband is a much 
greater doctor than I am. His ear is more true, his knowl- 
edge more profound, he can see farther and deeper into the 
marvelous mechanism of the human frame than I can. I, 
too, have studied, I, too, have worked, but not ” 

“Hot with his motives,” interrupted Cecilia. “Laurence 
has always searched for truth — he has lived for truth, and he 
loves his profession next best to his God.” 

“You are right,” said Phillips. 

“It seems unworthy of you, Dr. Phillips,” said Cecilia, 
“to vent your petty spite on a man like my husband.” 

“Ah!” said Phillips, “did you never understand that a man 
like your husband could be cordially hated?” 

“Do you cordially hate him?” 

“ I refuse to say anything on the subject — I leave you to 
judge.” 

The moonlight was now shining full on the balcony, and 
the faces of the speakers were each visible to the other. Both 
faces were pale and full of emotion. Between them both 
there now fell a silence, while quick thoughts whirled through 
the two brains. Cecilia was the first to speak. 

“You have always been a puzzle to me,” she said slowly. 
“Your apparent cordiality to my husband this evening, 
and your wish for a private conversation with me, in which 
you reverse all the friendly words you have spoken to him, 
puzzle me as I have never been puzzled before.” 

“Ah, I thought you would say something of that sort,” 
laughed Phillips. % 

“You have a motive for this conversation,” continued 
Cecilia, “ which you have not yet revealed. Say at once what 
you wish to say, or I shall return to the drawing room.” 

“Give me a moment: I am coming to my motive.” 

“State it to me in a few words then — I don’t need to have 
your subject gently broken. You are about to do something 
cruel — deal your blow without an y further preamble.” 

“You are unjust to me, Mrs. Digby.” 

“Speak!” said Cecilia, stamping her foot. 

“What I wish to say is this. Your husband has taken 


THE TALK OF THE CLUB. 


203 


something from me : he has taken — what I, as a medical man, 
deeply prize — a certain part of my reputation away. I do 
not know how far the injury he has done will spread — it 
may be very serious, it may, on the contrary, be small — 
but, be it large or small, I ask the reparation at your hands, 
not at his.” 

“How? How is it possible for me to repair the injury you 
imagine you have received?” 

“Pray, leave out the word ‘ imagine,’ Mrs. Digby.” 

“How am I to help you?” 

Phillips came a little nearer. 

“ Mrs. Digby, I have more than once alluded to the subject 
I am now going to speak of. Your husband has, unwittingly, 
we will allow, dealt a serious blow to my reputation. There 
is a way in which I can regain it. Years ago Digby made a 
discovery of a very important character. For some incon- 
ceivable reason it lies idle, unused, unknown. Get him to 
talk the matter over with me. Induce your husband with 
all your woman’s wiles to give me his confidence, to share his 
secret with me, and this unpleasant episode shall be at once 
forgotten, and I will become in reality what the world now 
thinks me, Digby ’s greatest friend.” 

“My husband will never do what you wish,” said Cecilia. 
“If he has a secret, he has his own best reasons for keeping 
it to himself. It is useless for me to stir in the matter. I 
cannot possibly help you.” 

“You can, if you please. There is nothing under the sun 
that a woman like you cannot make a man do for her.” 

“Thank you for your opinion of my power. Suppose I 
refuse to use it?” 

“Do you know,” said Phillips, “why I have been kind 
to you? I have been consistently kind — you will admit 
that!” 

“You have. I have often wondered why, but I deny noth- 
ing that is true.” 

“I had a motive.” 

“I guessed as much.” 

“I will tell you frankly what my motive was and is. I 
never cared for Digby, but nevertheless I used all the means 
in my power to induce him to come to this house. When he 
came I made matters smooth for him. It so happened that it 
lay in my power to introduce your husband to the class of pa- 
tients who would be sure to appreciate his sterling merit. 


204 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Practically I got him his connection. He owes his very suc- 
cessful career to me.” 

“You have done much for him, undoubtedly, Dr. Phil- 
lips, but I deny that he owes his career altogether to you. 
He owes it also to his brains, to his sympathy, to his good- 
ness, to his truth.” 

■ “Yes, yes, but these things don’t go far unaided. I repeat, 
your husband owes his connection primarily to me. Do you 
suppose that one doctor does as much, as a rule, for another? 
Does he do it for the man who has slighted him, wounded his 
pride, and hurt his vanity? The most Christian man who 
ever walked would draw the line at that. I am not a Chris- 
tian man — I am worldly to the backbone. Do you suppose I 
have done what I have for nothing?” 

“No,” responded Cecilia. “You would not be Dr. Phil- 
lips if you had.” 

Phillips’s dark face assumed an ugly expression, 

“I will tell you what I did it for,” he said. “I did it for 
the sake of future reputation. I did it because there is no 
man living more devoured by ambition than I am. Your 
husband cares nothing for fame, he is without ambition. He 
possesses a secret which, if known, would make his name a 
word of blessing on the lips of all men. I want to share his 
secret and his renown. Now you know; I have spoken.” 

“Yes.” Cecilia’s tone was like ice. “I am sorry for 
you,” she said; “your quest is vain.” 

Phillips’s face grew paler. 

“I can become just as unpleasant as I have been pleasant,” 
he said. “For instance, do you remember the brougham 
which I paid for? Your husband knows nothing of this.” 

“He knows nothing,” she said. “I have never told him. 
I have been wrong, perhaps, but it would pain him to know.” 

“My dear lady, don’t excite yourself. I paid for the 
brougham also with a motive. I have the receipts; I can 
show them to you or to Digby any day. The matter remains 
with yourself. You understand me?” 

“I certainly fully understand you. But you know me 
very little if you think threats can move me. Even if I could 
induce myself to speak to my husband on the subject to 
which you have alluded, it would be absolutely useless, for 
Laurence has often told me that he would not talk of his 
scientific research to anyone.” 

“If you wished it he would do so. You don’t half realize 


PHILLIPS'S EVIL GENIUS. 


205 


your power; no woman that I have ever met holds more in 
her hands than you do ; as to Digby , you have but to say the 
word, and he will obey.” 

“I am proud to say that he will not. If I were capable of 
saying a wrong thing to my husband he would show me my 
error, but he would not lose his goodness for my sake. Above 
all things in the world, I am proud of him for this.” 

“Cecilia!” called Digby’s voice from the drawing room, 
“the night has turned colder; you and Phillips had better 
come in.” 

Cecilia returned to the drawing room at once. Phillips fol- 
lowed her. 

“You are right, Digby,” he said, in a cordial voice. “I 
hope Mrs. Digby has taken no chill. We were having an 
interesting conversation, and forgot the lateness of the 
hour.” 


CHAPTER IY. 
phillips’s evil genius. 

At last the day arrived when the Digbys and the Phillipses 
were to have their water picnic. 

They were to go by train to Kingston, and there go on 
board the launch which would be waiting for them. The 
party were to have a picnic dinner on board, and would re- 
turn in the evening for supper to the “Star and Garter” at 
Richmond. 

Everything had been planned to perfection, and as the 
guests who had accepted the invitation were many of them 
special friends of Mrs. Digby’s, she looked forward to a 
far pleasanter time than she had anticipated a fortnight 
ago. 

The morning of this day, which was fraught with so many 
and such grave results, dawned with a cloudless sky. Cecilia 
put on her festive dress with a gay heart, and laughed with 
delight when Nance, in soft white from her bright head to 
her dainty feet, danced into the room. 

Cecilia, too, was in white, and the mother and child as they 
stood together bore a certain resemblance to each other. 

Between these two faces so widely different — between these 
natures so apart in all essentials — there was ever noticed by 
those who watched them, this fleeting, fluctuating, queer re- 
semblance. It flashed out of the two pairs of eyes and then 


206 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


disappeared. Its sweetness lingered in the voice of the 
child, to be caught up in a sort of echo by the mother. 

People saw it, and remarked on it, and then vowed that 
they had never seen it, and never remarked on it. 

“How comes it that Mrs. Digby’s child is not the least like 
her?” one neighbor said. 

“Anyone can tell that those two are mother and daughter,” 
remarked another. 

Now, holding Nance’s hand, Cecilia ran down and knocked 
at the consulting-room door. 

One of Digby’s rules was never to see any but his poor pa- 
tients on Saturday, and the hour for these to come and go 
was long past. 

He called, “Come in,” when he heard the knock, and 
Nance flew like a little soft breeze to his side. 

“Laurence,” said his wife, “you ought to have changed 
your coat; it is almost time for us to start; the carriage will 
be round in about five minutes.” 

“Here’s a mess,” said Digby, holding out an open tele- 
gram. “Ray has just wired to me to say that that poor 
fellow, Harper — you remember Harper, Cecilia? the waterman 
in whom I was so much interested when we lived in Coxmoor 
Street? — is very ill, dying in fact. He has been asking for 
me all night, poor fellow, so Ray wired to know if I could 
come. I have just told Jacobs to whistle for a hansom.” 

“O Laurence, really ” began Cecilia. 

The words which her lips had not uttered were checked by 
a displeased flash from her husband’s eyes. 

“Stay one moment, father,” cried Nance. She rushed out 
of the room, returning in almost an instant with her two 
hands filled with roses — great crimson and pink blossoms in 
every stage of growth. 

“Won’t you take these to poor Harper, father?” she said. 
“He’ll have lots of them in heaven, I know — much nicer 
ones, and they won’t wither — but perhaps he’d like these; 
and you can say that your little girl gave them to you for him, 
will you, father? Perhaps he’d like me to send him a kiss, 
too, if he’s very bad.” 

“The cab is at the door, sir,” said Jacobs, appearing for 
an instant with the precision of a wooden soldier, and disap- 
pearing. 

“Do take the roses, father,” said Nance. 

Digby detached one magnificent blossom from the rest. 


PHILLIPS'S EVIL GENIUS. 


207 


“Kiss it, Nance,” he said. “Once, twice, thrice. Poor 
Harper will be glad of this rose. Good-by, my darling. 
Good-by, Cecilia, dear.” 

“But, Laurence, aren’t you coming at all? Are we to 
spend a long day without you?” 

“By no means. Let me see, I can join you at Thames 
Ditton. Look out for me there between two and three o’clock. 
Now, I’m off; good-by, both of you.” 

A few moments later Cecilia stepped into her carriage, and, 
with Nance by her side, was whirled away to Waterloo 
Station. There several friends met them, and a train quickly 
conveyed the entire party to Kingston-on-Thames. The 
steam launch was a large one, and every possible arrange- 
ment for the comfort of the party had been made. 

A brass band came on board, awnings were erected over the 
deck, dinner and other refreshments were to be provided. 
The programme for the day’s pleasure was as perfect as good 
taste and money could make it. 

Several of Cecilia’s special friends were among the invited 
guests. She welcomed, and was welcomed herself, with en- 
thusiasm. She was far and away the most attractive looking 
woman on board the launch, and Nance was by many degrees 
the most lovely child. 

Phillips watched the two with an undefined sense of pleas- 
ure. He felt that, to a certain extent, he had Cecilia in 
his power. He had no idea of carrying matters to extremities, 
but he was quite unscrupulous enough to be willing to give 
pain, if it were necessary to effect his object. 

Lady Sharpe came over, and began to talk to Mrs. Digby. 

“It is a great disappointment not to see your husband,” 
she said. “I will frankly say that the hope of meeting him, 
was the great inducement that brought me here to-day.” 

“Dr. Digby hopes to join us in the afternoon,” replied 
Cecilia. 

“Oh, yes, yes; but if he is interested in a case of serious 
illness is it likely that he will leave it for a scene of pleasure? 
No, Mrs. Digby, I am too well acquainted with that good 
husband of yours to believe such a thing possible.” 

“He will certainly not come if his presence is necessary 
elsewhere,” answered Cecilia. Then she added, with a pro- 
found sigh: “I will own that I, too, am bitterly disappointed. 
Wives of doctor have many trials.” 

“Yes, my dear, yes. But the wives of doctors like your 


208 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


husband have also many honors. There are compensations in 
all things. You can never look at that good man whose wife 
you are without a sense of pride.” 

“I know. It gives me inmmense pleasure to know how 
you, too, appreciate him.” 

Lady Sharpe seated herself on a deck chair. 

“Let us have a little chat here all by ourselves,” she said; 
“the rest of the party are ravished with the view, but I have 
often seen this part of the Thames. I know every curve of 
the river. I admit its beauty, but I need not talk about it 
to-day. I want to have a pleasant time with you. Do you 
see Dorothy over there? She is talking to your little daugh- 
ter; she is very fond of Nance.” 

“I know, and Nance is fond of her. Dorothy looks well, 
Lady Sharpe. What a blooming color she has ; what a bright 
expression.” 

“Yes,” replied the mother, “and we owe it all to your 
husband. I shall never forget the first time I visited 48 
Hartrick Street. The memory of that day has burnt into 
my heart. I went there full of hope. You can scarcely un- 
derstand the sick fear which had been mine for many and 
many a day; the agony with which I listened to my child 
every time she coughed, the terror that possessed me when I 
saw the faintest symptom of ill health about her. Then I 
heard certain words, and I went to your husband full of hope. 
Mrs. Digby, there never in all the world was a sorer heart 
than mine when I left Dr. Digby’s consulting room that day. 
He spoke plainly to me. I said to him, ‘You possess a cure 
for consumption?’ He said, ‘I do not.’ I thought his very 
truthfulness cruel. I admired him, and yet I almost hated 
him.” 

“The person you ought to have hated was Dr. Phillips,” 
said Cecilia, with flashing eyes. “I know well who fostered 
that false hope in your heart. Dr. Phillips has got the most 
extraordinary idea with regard to my husband. I cannot im- 
agine his motive for spreading the sort of rumors that he has 
done. They are absolutely untrue.” 

“Yes,” said Lady Sharpe, “Dr. Digby himself denied 
them.” Then she added, laying her plump hand on her 
young hostess’s arm: “I agree with you, my dear.” 

“What about?” asked Cecilia. 

“You say that I ought to hate Dr. Phillips. What if I 
do?” 


PHILLIPS'S EVIL GENIUS 


209 


Cecilia’s eyes grew bright. She made great efforts to sup- 
press some words that rose to her lips. 

A voice sounded in her ears. She sprang to her feet. 

“We are having a very pleasant time at the other end of 
the boat, Lady Sharpe,” said Phillips. “Mrs. Digby, will not 
you and Lady Sharpe give us the pleasure of your company?” 

Cecilia hesitated, but Lady Sharpe’s words were firm. 

“We are very happy as we are,” she said. “It is refresh- 
ing to sit perfectly still and not even to have to look at any- 
thing pretty. I am old enough to hate to be asked to admire 
scenery each moment. Don’t worry about us, Dr. Phillips. 
Go back to your guests like a good man.” 

Phillips smiled. 

“I will confess something,” he said. “There are moments 
in my life when I, too, hate beautiful scenery.” 

“I never hate it,” said Cecilia. “Nothing rests me like a 
lovely view, but I like best to look at it in silence.” 

“Then I must accept my mandate,” he remarked, with a 
slightly sarcastic bow. lie turned on his heel,, and went 
back to his other guests. 

Cecilia and Lady Sharpe sat together for some time. They 
were old friends now, and had much to talk over in common. 

The beautiful day wore on, the gayety and fun increased 
each moment, and Cecilia began to hope that her husband 
would soon join them; but at one of the locks a disappoint- 
ment awaited her. A telegram was handed to her. It was 
from Digby. 

“Cannot join you until you get to Cookham,” were the 
words that it contained. 

An exclamation of annoyance rushed to Cecilia’s lips. She 
did not utter it, but a quick, bright color swept over her face, 
and she crushed the little pink paper in her hand. 

A very pretty girl, standing near, came up to her side. 

“I hope you have no bad news,” she said. 

“You would scarcely call it bad news, Miss Clive, but I 
confess I am disappointed. I hoped my husband would have 
joined us at this lock, but he has sent word that he cannot 
be with us for two or three hours longer.” 

Miss Clive’s face grew wistful. 

“And that makes you very unhappy?” she queried. 

“It disappoints me rather keenly.” 

“I have heard a great deal about Dr. Digby,” continued 
the girl. “Will you forgive my asking you a question?” 


210 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“Certainly. Ask me what you like.” 

“Have you been married long?” 

“Over ten years.” 

“And you are disappointed, you look pale and miserable, 
because your husband cannot be with you during the greater 
part of one day? Surely yours is not a common experience?” 

“I cannot answer that question,” replied Cecilia. “I 
should wish for the sake of other wives that it were common. ” 

“Have you heard anything about me lately?” 

“Yes, you are shortly going to marry a friend of ours, 
Herbert Stuart.” 

“I am, and I love him with all my heart. My friends 
sometimes laugh at me. They say words like these : ‘Wait 
until you are a prosy old wife, and all your ideas will change. 
You are now in the ideal stage.’ They all say that a period 
comes when the ideal fades in the light of common day.” 

“It hasn’t proved so in my case,” replied Cecilia. “Let 
us sit here and talk a little. I can give you no better wish 
than that you may be as happy as I am.” 

“Mother,” said little Nance, suddenly flying up to her 
mother’s side, “won’t you come round to where we are all 
sitting? We are having such a jolly time, and Cousin Helen 
is just going to sing to us.” 

Cecilia bent down and kissed Nance. Before she could re- 
ply another voice sounded in her ears. 

“Mrs. Digby,” said Phillips, “you are really unkind. For 
an hour and more this morning you and Lady Sharpe deter- 
mined to banish yourselves from the rest of the party; now 
you and Miss Clive are equally cruel. 

“But we are enjoying ourselves as we like best,” retorted 
Cecilia. “Miss Clive is my guest, and lam entertaining her. 
If you find yourself dull, Miss Clive, don’t hesitate to say 
so.” 

“I have never felt less dull in my life.” 

“You have your answer, Dr. Phillips. We will join the 
rest of you presently.” 

Phillips gave Cecilia a quick, half angry glance. He saw 
that she was determined to avoid him. He bit his lips, and 
turned away. Nance looked with eager, loving eyes from 
her mother to Phillips. She saw that something had put him 
out, and with quick sympathy ran up to him and slipped her 
little hand into his. 

“I want to hear Cousin Helen sing,” she said. “Will you 


PHILLIPS'S EVIL GENIUS. 


211 


ask her to begin at once, please? She will do it if you ask 
her.” 

“Not a bit sooner for me than for you, little Nancy. Come, 
we will present our joint entreaties.” 

He took the child’s hand in his own, bestowed upon her a 
queer, half tender, half remorseful glance, and walked down 
the little boat. 

“Are you dull with me, Nanny,” he asked. 

“No, what a funny question. I like being with you.” 

“Shall we sit here for a little? No one seems to want us 
particularly. At this moment the day is lovely. The love- 
liness of the day is infecting everyone, and when people are 
perfectly happy, it is best to leave them alone.” 

“Yes,” said Nance. “I don’t think mother and I are per- 
fectly happy, though. We are awfully disappointed about 
father. Aren’t you dreadfully disappointed, Dr. Phillips?” 

“Well, Nance, I should prefer to have your father here, of 
course.” 

In spite of himself there was a false ring in his voice, 
which the child detected. 

“Why do you speak in that tone?” she asked. 

“What tone, my dear?” 

“I can’t exactly explain the tone to you,, but I don’t like it. 
It sounds — queer. Shall we go now and ask Cousin Helen 
to sing something?” 

“In a minute, Nancy. What a very restless little mortal 
you are. Don’t you like sitting still with a friend who cares 
very much for you?” 

“I do like sitting with you, but sometimes I get restless, 
particularly if I am not tired. I am not a bit tired now. I 
wish father would come. I know, of course, that he’s curing 
sick people, but it seems hard that he should not have fun like 
the rest of us. You always have lots of fun, Dr. Phillips. 
I suppose you don’t cure many sick people?” 

“I am supposed to cure them, my dear, but, like other 
doctors, I sometimes fail.” 

“That’s the best of father, he never fails.” 

“My dear Nanny, some of your father’s patients die.” 

“I know that, but not before father has done them lots of 
good. You see, it is this way: If God means their bodies to 
be cured, then father cures them; if not ” 

“Go on, Nancy. If not?” 

“If not,” said Nance, in a solemn voice, “then father does 


212 


TEE MEDICINE LADY. 


the other thing. He tells them about the Golden Gates, and 
then they don’t mind.” 

“The Golden Gates! What in the world do you mean?” 
asked Phillips, in a puzzled voice. 

“Yes; don’t you know about them? They stand at the 
end of life; when you come to the end, the very end, then 
you reach them, and if you are good you go inside them. 
Father has often told me about the place at the other side of 
the Gates, and when sick people are sorry to die father tells 
them about the other side, and then they don’t mind. I 
shouldn’t mind dying a bit.” 

“Come, my dear,” said Phillips suddenly, “you must 
allow me to say that this kind of talk is very morbid and bad 
for you. If you were my little girl, I should keep your mind 
occupied with practical, everyday matters. Come, come, we 
will join the others, and get your Cousin Helen to sing to us.” 

Cecilia still stood at a little distance, by Miss Clive’s side. 
They were talking quietly together when the sounds of 
Helen’s voice, pure and sweet as a bird’s, floated on their 
ears: 

“Oh, that we two were maying.” 

Cecilia started. The color filled her cheeks. She gave a 
quick glance at her companion, then turned her head away. 

“You look very tired, Mrs. Digby,” said the young girl. 
“You look as if something pained you. Don’t you like that 
lovely, lovely song?” 

“It oppresses me,” said Cecilia. “It is too much. It 
ought not to be sung here.” 

“Why not ? I never heard anything more beautiful.” 

“It is not right to have it sung like this, in broad daylight, 
to people who are not prepared.” 

“But we are both prepared, are we not?” said Miss Clive, 
with a sudden, very sweet smile. “Listen, do listen!” 

The exquisite voice of the singer kept floating and swelling 
on the summer breeze : 

“ Oh, that we two sat dreaming 
On the sward of some sheep-trimmed down.” 

A thousand emotions flitted across Miss Clive’s face. Cecilia 
suddenly held out her hand, and clasped that of her young com- 
panion. 

“We will join the others, if you wish,” she said. “I do not 
think it is right to sing that song to the common herd. For- 


PHILLIPS'S EVIL GENIUS. 


213 


give the expression. You know what I mean. The words 
are holy, and Mrs. Phillips is singing them to a mixed audi- 
ence. Come, we won’t stay by ourselves any longer. I 
must speak to Mrs. Phillips when the song is finished.” 

“ Oh, that we two lay sleeping/’ 
sang the minstrel, her voice sweet as evening bells, 

“Oh, that we two lay sleeping 
In our nest in the churchyard sod, 

With our limbs at rest on the quiet earth’s breast, 

And our souls at home with God, 

Our souls at home with God — with God.” 

Phillips came suddenly up to Cecilia. 

“You look very tired,” he said, in a voice of sympathy. 
“Here is a comfortable deck chair, sit here, and let me bring 
you a cup of tea.” 

Miss Clive walked forward to speak to an acquaintance; 
Cecilia sat down without a word of remonstrance. The 
words kept echoing and echoing in her ears : 

“ Oh, that we two lay sleeping,” 

Why did not Laurence come? She had a queer sensation 
— forebodings seized her. She knew they were absurd, she 
knew that even the most sympathetic would laugh at her. 
Her husband was kept from joining the party by a mission of 
mercy, and in her foolish, fond heart, she had absolutely be- 
gan to fear that some evil had befallen him. 

“Oh, that we two lay sleeping.” 

Phillips brought her a cup of tea; she took it mechanically 
from his hands. 

“Oh, that we two lay sleeping, 

In our nest in the churchyard sod.” 

“What is the matter with you? asked Phillips. “Why 
do you tremble?” 

“I get deadly tired of life, sometimes,” she replied. 

“You are tired of life on a day like this? Ah, I know ! you 
miss your husband. You are a very devoted wife.” 

“I love my husband with all my heart and strength,” re- 
sponded Cecilia, speaking in a low voice of suppressed pas- 
sion. 

“I know,” said Phillips, in a voice whose sudden sympathy 
thrilled her. “Digby is the sort of man to inspire adoration 


214 


THE MEDICINE LADY . 


from women. It is quite conceivable even to me that his 
wife should love him in the way you say.” 

“I am surprised at your understanding,” said Cecilia. 

1 ‘You do not give me credit even for that?” 

“I confess I mistrust you,” she said quickly. 

“You are painfully frank, Mrs. Digby. You have taken 
that virtue from your husband.” 

“My husband is certainly the essence of truth,” she re- 
plied. She began to sip her tea. The summer breeze swept 
back her hair, and cooled her hot cheeks. The refrain of 
Helen’s song kept echoing and echoing in her heart. 

“ And our souls at home, 

Our souls at home with God — with God.” 

Why did not Laurence come? 

“Mrs. Digby,” said Phillips, who was watching her face 
intently, “I should like to tell you that your husband and I have 
had a satisfactory conversation with regard to Sir Henry 
Marshall. It was a very unpleasant matter, but Digby could 
scarcely have acted in any other way than he did. I must 
only trust that Sir Henry will not spread unpleasant rumors 
with regard to me any further. If he does, I shall have sus- 
tained a very great injury, although it was committed unin- 
tentionally. ” 

“My husband would, of course, be sorry to injure you in 
any way,” said Cecilia. “He has always appreciated your 
real kindness to him, but he has also told me, what he has 
doubtless told you, that, as an individual, he has no sympathy 
with you.” 

Phillips winced. 

“That does not prevent his acknowledging that I have been 
a very good friend to him,” said Phillips. 

“No; he admits that fully.” 

“Mrs. Digby, you must allow me to say something. Your 
husband frankly confides to you that he has no sympathy 
with me. Is it not possible that this 'is so because he mis- 
judges me? As a young man, I will own that I often irritated 
him. I liked him as little as he liked me. Perhaps I was 
jealous. With years one learns to subdue base emotions. 
With years one learns wisdom.” 

“You talk in a very different manner to what you did a few 
nights ago,” replied Cecilia. 

“Will you make no allowance for the annoyance I naturally 


PHILLIPS'S EVIL GENIUS. 


215 


felt that evening? I was much irritated. Surely I had an 
excuse?” 

“Perhaps you had. ” Mrs. Digby rose from her deck chair. 
“If I was rude to you that evening, please forget it,” she said. 
“Now, shall we go back to our visitors?” 

“One last word. I did you a kindness — you individually 
— some years ago. I threatened to make that kindness a 
source of unpleasantness to you the other evening.” 

“You did,” replied Mrs. Digby; “and I told you then 
what I now repeat — that you can never make me afraid of 
you. I did very wrong to accept money from you to pay for 
my husband’s brougham. I have not told him, because I am 
sure he would be distressed and annoyed with me for having 
accepted money from you for any purpose; but don’t suppose 
for a moment that I should hesitate to tell him everything if 
you again spoke to me as you did that evening last week.” 

“My dear lady, I will never speak to you in that tone again. 
I repented the moment I had left your house. I called myself 
many hard names. I know that I acted like a brute.” 

“You certainly did not act like a gentleman.” 

“Well, well; no one can do more than thoroughly repent. 
Now, you must listen to me. Your husband possesses a most 
valuable secret. I frankly own that I am anxious to share it 
with him. For some extraordinary reason he withholds it 
from the world. I am anxious to talk that reason over with 
him — I am most anxious to induce him to change his mind. 
Digby holds in his hands a cure which he himself has dis- 
covered, and which, if rightly used, might largely benefit 
the human race. It is absolutely wrong of him to keep such 
a valuable secret to himself. Mrs. Digby, your eyes avoid 
mine. You know perfectly well that such a secret exists.” 

“I deny nothing, I affirm nothing,” replied Cecilia. 

“You are adamant in your tone, but in the expression of 
your eyes I read your thoughts. I repeat what I said just now 
— that your husband’s motive for keeping this thing dark is 
an unexplained mystery. He may be overscrupulous; he 
may fear danger in making experiments. Are not two heads 
better than one? I ask you, Mrs. Digby, I ask you most 
earnestly to plead my cause with your husband. Tell him 
that I will approach his great discovery as reverently as man 
can; that I will help him to the utmost of my power in every 
way that I can. I will give money, time, and all that I possess 
to his aid, and— — •” 


216 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Cecilia raised her head. She began to watch Phillips’s face 
with interest. His words were very earnest. He looked his 
best at that moment. His dark eyes were gazing straight be- 
fore him. Suddenly they flashed a look at her. In a twink- 
ling their expression changed. He saw that he had impressed 
her, and his evil genius looked from his face with a brief flash 
of triumph, and disappeared. 

But Cecilia had seen the look. In an instant the half confi- 
dence she was about to give was repressed. 

The steam launch was slackening speed. It was approach- 
ing one of the locks. 

“I do not trust you,” said Cecilia. “I do not trust you. 
Do not ask me why, for it would be absolutely impossible for 
me to explain. Oh!” she said, with a sudden cry of relief 
and delight, “there’s my husband at last.” 

Digby was standing by the lock-keeper’s side. Cecilia 
looked up at him, and a smile broke over her face. 

CHAPTER V. 

A WILD RIDE. 

The gay little steam launch was going quickly back to 
Richmond at this time. Digby was eager welcomed by 
everyone on board. After the short bustle of greeting was 
over, he went up to his wife’s side. 

“I have a treat in store for you,” he said; “one that I 
know you will appreciate. I have arranged that you and I 
shall drive home through Richmond together. Roberts is 
bringing the phaeton over.” 

“That is nice,” she answered. “On a beautiful night like 
this a drive will be delightful. But what are we to do with 
Nance?” 

“Mrs. Phillips will take her home if we ask her. Nance 
must not be out so late. Ah! there she is, looking at us 
with her wistful little face. Come along, Nancy; here, spring 
up on my shoulder. Isn’t that a proud elevation? Now look 
round the world, and tell me what you see.” 

“Stars coming out in the sky,” replied Nance, in her slow 
voice. 

“You romantic little mortal! Well, what else?” 

“Happy people all round us. I think the world is quite 
beautiful to-day. Dad, please let me whisper to you. Did 
you give Harper the roses?” 


A WILD RIDE. 


217 


“I did, my love. And in especial I gave him the crimson 
rose with your three kisses in its heart.” 

“Did he like my roses and my kisses ? Did he seem glad ?” 

“He was scarcely in a condition to be glad. When I saw 
poor Harper, he was having a desperate fight.” 

“A fight, father? I thought he was very ill?” 

“He was having his last fight, Nance. The last enemy to 
be destroyed is death. Sometimes, and with some people, 
there is a hard tussle in that fight.” 

“Was there for poor Harper?” asked Nance. Tears 
brimmed up into her eyes as she spoke. 

Digby seated himself on the bulwarks that ran round the 
deck, and took the child on his knee. 

“Don’t be sad, my little girl,” he said. “The fight is 
well over now, and Harper had the victory in the end. He is 
the victor now, your red rose lies on his breast. The kisses — • 
I think he took the kisses with him.” 

“Has he gone inside the Golden Gates at the end of the 
road?” 

“I think he has.” 

“We are just reaching the pier, Laurence,” said his wife. 
“Nance, darling, do you greatly mind going back to London 
without father and me?” 

Nance looked quickly up, and her sensitive face changed 
color. 

“See how tired father looks,” pursued Cecilia. “He 
wants to drive home from Richmond, and he wants me to go 
with him, but it isn’t good for you to be out in the night air. 
Do you mind going home with Cousin Helen?” 

The child was silent for about half a minute. Her little 
face turned from white to pink, then she said in that intensely 
quiet manner which she always put on when she was trying 
to control her real feelings : 

“I don’t mind a bit; I like going home with Cousin Helen.” 

“You are a very brave little girl, and I am proud of you,” 
said Digby, kissing her. 

The supper at the “Star and Garter” was all that could be 
desired. Soon after many of the guests parted from their 
hosts and hostesses and betook themselves to their own homes. 

Phillips and his wife gladly undertook the charge of Nance, 
and the Digbys found themselves alone. Cecilia was in high 
spirits now. 

“This is really like old times,” she said, as she paced the 


218 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


terrace in front of the hotel with her husband, while they 
waited for the carriage to come round. “0 Laurence, this is 
delightful! I feel very young to-night.” 

“My dear,” replied her husband, “you are young, and I hope 
you will long continue to feel all that the word ‘youth’ im- 
plies. Come, here is our trap. Now for a spin through the 
cool night air. Are the horses all right, Roberts?” 

“The new mare is a bit fresh, sir.” 

Digby went up and patted the horse, a beautiful roan 
colored animal. 

“You will soon be acquainted with my touch, won’t you, 
Stella?” he said. “Ho! quiet now, beauty. Get in, Cecilia, 
please. We don’t want you, Roberts, you can go home by 
train.” 

Digby touched the horses lightly with the whip, and he 
and his wife soon left the “Star and Garter” behind them. 

As they were driving down the hill toward London, Digby 
turned and looked at Cecilia. 

“At this rate we shall be home in no time,” he said. 
“Suppose we go for a really long drive. It matters little 
when we arrive at Hartrick Street, and Stella will be all the 
better for a good run to take some of the freshness out of 
her.” 

“Where shall we go?” asked Cecilia. 

“Oh, anywhere. It doesn’t matter a bit. I feel in a most 
festive humor. This delicious air after that close alley raises 
my spirits to a marvelous pitch. I should not be feeling so 
gay if I did not know that Harper had also left the noisome 
and filthy alley, and gone away to a pure air.” 

Digby turned the horses’ heads as he spoke. They drove 
down a long, shady country road. It was a perfect night, 
as perfect as the day which had preceded it. Stars glittered 
in thousands all over the dark blue firmament. Summer light- 
ning played at intervals across the heavens. The breath of 
the night was cool and balmy as it blew over their faces. 
Cecilia leant back in the mail phaeton, and gave herself up to 
absolute enjoyment. Digby was a first-class whip, and she 
felt no fear whatever when she drove out with him. 

“You have always taken a great interest in Harper,” she 
said, after a pause. 

“I have — doubtless because in a great measure he reminded 
me of myself. He was a poor man with no educational ad- 
vantages, and I have been blessed with the best training of 


A WILD RIDE. 


219 


every sort. Nevertheless, in almost every point we had sym- 
pathy. The man in his way was ever a fighter, and so, I think, 
am I. One after another, dim, dark giants of unbelief, fear, 
want of faith, assailed him. One after another he laid them 
low, as — as I hope to lay low giants who fight with me some 
day.” 

Digby sighed as he spoke. Cecilia sat silent. She felt 
she could not reply to such words of her husband’s. A sad- 
ness crept over her as she listened to him. She felt that, 
dearly as she loved him, she but half understood his nature. 

After a time she said in a very low voice : 

“You speak of shadowy giants who must be conquered. 
Do they come into all lives?” 

“Assuredly. Most assuredly they visit everyone.” 

“For instance,” continued Mrs. Digby, “that strange, 
overpowering sense of nervousness which comes over me now 
and then, is it purely physical?” 

“To a certain extent it is physical, but it is a sort of sen- 
sation which, physical in itself, is best overcome by the ex- 
ercise of the spiritual. The next time that giant assails you, 
Cecilia, go up to it boldly, run your sword through it, and 
believe me, it will vanish.” 

“What sword?” she asked. 

“The sword of faith,” he replied. “The powerful, two- 
edged sword of faith and prayer.” 

Cecilia felt an uprising in her throat. She was silent 
again for a little; then she said, with uncontrollable im- 
pulse : 

“I must speak what is in my mind. I am quite sure that 
as long as I keep close to your side I shall never utterly lose 
faith in God. You make dishonor impossible to me. You 
make evil things hateful to me. You make good things ador- 
able. I see good through your eyes, and it looks very fair; 
I see evil through your eyes, and it looks black and loathsome. 
I see — Laurence, are we not going very fast? Are you losing 
control of the horses?” 

“No,” replied Digby, “the horses are all right. They are 
fresh, I admit, but I can pull them in at any moment. I 
hope you had a happy day, Cecilia. It was very unlucky, 
my being obliged to absent myself. How did Phillips get 
on? Do you think he has quite got over that unpleasant 
affair connected with Sir Henry Marshall?” 

“He seems to have got over it. He spoke kindly to me. 


220 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


I do not think he ever spoke more kindly — not that I trust 
him,” added Mrs. Digby suddenly. 

Digby turned round, and gave her a sharp glance. 

“You share my sentiments,” he said, after a pause. “I 
often cry shame to myself for not being a better friend to 
that man. He has been persistently kind to me. He has 
helped me more substantially than most men would help their 
brothers. I will not for a moment admit that I should not 
have secured many patients without his aid, but I must at 
the same time honestly confess that I should not have got a 
practice so quickly had he not spoken of me far and near. 
Knowing the man’s character, I cannot understand why he 
has done all this. In his heart he is not my friend, and — I am 
going to say something uncharitable — he is not even a gener- 
ous minded man. Why has he helped me?” 

“I know,” said Cecilia suddenly. 

“You know?” retorted Digby. “My dear, explain 
yourself.” 

“He has fully revealed his motive to me. You remember 
that old secret of yours, Laurence?” 

“That old secret?” replied Digby. “I never kept a secret 
in my life. What do you mean?” 

“You may not call it a secret. Long ago, before we were 
married, you made a discovery with regard to consumption. 
Don’t you remember telling me of it the day after Nance was 
so ill? I, at least, have never forgotten what you said that 
evening.” 

“Whoa, Stella! not so quick,” said Digby. Lie tightened 
his hold of the reins, and compelled the horses to go at a more 
moderate speed. 

“Cecilia,” he continued, a slight severity coming into his 
voice, “you did not, I hope, repeat what I said on that night 
at any time to Phillips.” 

“Never. It is unjust of you even to ask me the question.” 

“Forgive me, my darling. I might have known that you 
were as true as steel. So Phillips scents possible fame in the 
shape of my immature discovery. Ha, ha ! That is his motive. 
Now there is another point: the man has constantly hinted 
to me his firm belief that I hold in my hands the cure for the 
most terrible and fell disease in existence. I have never 
spoken of my partial discovery to a human being but yourself. 
You have never breathed it to mortal. How has the idea got 
into his brain?” 


A WILD JUDE. 


221 


“I cannot tell you, Laurence. It is certainly there.” 

“And what is more,” continued Digby, “it has been there 
for a long time. He sent Lady Sharpe to me on its quest. 
How has the knowledge possibly got to him?” 

“I do not know.” 

“He would be dishonorable enough to read my papers, but 
none have ever got into his hands. I must own that this 
puzzles me and makes me uneasy. Phillips is a man who 
would do me a mischief if he could.” 

“Yes, I agree with you. As I said just now, I don’t trust 
him. He told me emphatically to-day that he knew you had 
made an important discovery. He said that it was wrong of 
you not to use it. He is anxious to talk the matter over fully 
with you. He says that he will approach your discovery in a 
spirit of reverence; that he will assist you with money, 
with time — in short, that he will more or less give up his life 
to this thing.” 

“He is utterly mistaken if he thinks I could ever work it 
with him,” said Digby. “Whoa, whoa, Stella! you are 
going too much ahead again. There, that is better. Phillips 
and I are as the poles apart in all things, Cecilia. Even if 
there was anything to confide, I should never give my confi- 
dence to a man like James Phillips.” 

“I told him so, Laurence; I told him as much in my own 
words. Still, the man has a queer — I might almost call it a 
cruel — persistence about the matter.” 

“In this case, my love, that persistence will never meet with 
its reward. Cecilia, you look very pale and tired.” 

“I am a little tired, but I am also happy. I am enjoying 
my drive immensely. Laurence, may I venture to ask 
you a question?” 

“May you venture? Of course.” 

“Why have you never perfected your discovery?” 

“For a thousand reasons, my dear, which I can scarcely 
explain to you.” 

“Have you ceased to believe in it?” 

“By no means — I do fully believe in it. I think it contains 
the germs of a very great idea. I believe that a day will 
come when a thought like mine will visit some one man 
who will have brains, time, and money to bring it to perfect 
tion. 

“Why should not you be the man?” 

“I have neither got the time nor the money.” 


222 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“The thought was given to you,” persisted Cecilia; “you 
ought to make the time.” 

“If I live long enough I may. My first duty at present is 
to provide for your future and for Nance’s. Believe me, 
Cecilia, I am not losing precious moments. To discover a 
cure for such a terrible disease as consumption a man must be 
armed on all points. He cannot possibly acquire too much 
knowledge. You know I have made consumption my speci- 
ality, and each day I get more and more into its dark and 
fearful secrets. I take copious notes of every case that comes 
under my notice. I am, to a certain extent, successful in my 
treatment — I mean that I have in many cases arrested the com- 
plaint, although no cure has yet absolutely been discovered for 
it. You remember that I sent Dorothy Sharpe to the Enga- 
dine, and you know how very successful my idea proved in her 
case. Since then I have sent several consumptive patients to 
high and rarefied air. This is a comparatively new treatment, 
and it interests me much. High air brings each portion of 
the lungs into full exercise, and in some cases absolutely ar- 
rests the disease, the patches of tubercle being simply dried 
up. Of course, there is the possibility of these tubercles be- 
coming active once more, but this state of things does not neces- 
sarily follow. I am much pleased with the new treatment, 
and in almost every case of consumption would advocate its 
adoption. What is the matter, Cecilia? How you fidget!” 

They were going down hill at a great pace, and Digby 
noticed that his wife moved restlessly as if she was not quite 
easy in her mind. 

“There is nothing to be anxious about,” he continued. 
“Are you afraid of the new mare? She is rather nervous, but 
you have nothing whatever to fear.” 

‘ ‘ Is there really no danger?’ ’ asked Cecilia. She looked into 
her husband’s face with alarm. “The mare starts dreadfully. 
Are the horses likely to become unmanageable?” 

Digby gave her a quick, reassuring smile. 

“I don’t apprehend the least danger, my love,” he said. 
“I am, as you know, a fairly good whip; the horses will have 
plenty to take it out of them before we get near town.” 

Cecilia did not ask any more, she seemed satisfied. Her 
nervous manner vanished; she leaned back in her seat, and 
gazed into a rapidly darkening night. It was true that Digby 
was a capital whip, and his words completely reassured her. 

The darkness of the summer night was presently illumined 


A WILD RIDE. 


223 


by a rising moon of great loveliness. The road lay in front of 
them like a winding white ribbon. Neither man nor any other 
living creature was in sight. Cecilia forgot the present in 
the thoughts that thronged her brain. A cold breeze came 
up and gave her a passing chill. She wrapped her crimson 
cloak tighter around her shoulders ; her face was very pale, 
and the moonbeams lit up her bright hair. 

Digby glanced round at his wife, and gave a quick sigh of 
satisfaction. Cecilia had doubtless many faults, but he felt 
at this moment that she was a very perfect and loveable woman, 
lie had never regretted his rather hasty marriage. His wife 
had those qualities which can ensure unflagging interest. 
She was quick, bright, impulsive. Her heart was full of 
the deepest and tenderest affection. She was very true, 
her moral courage seldom failed her. When she did wrong, 
hers was a quick and intense repentance. 

As years went by, Cecilia’s character had altered, had 
strengthened and improved. She had become practical — she 
had developed tact, she was far less under the influence of 
every passing emotion than of old. In every way she was 
an excellent and faithful wife, and a deeply affectionate 
mother. 

Digby felt proud of her. He said to himself, as he sat now 
by her side, that no woman could be dearer to him than this 
one whom he had truly married in haste. 

“I am proud of Cecilia to-night,” he said under his breath. 
“Her nervous system is in much better order than of old. 
She has learnt quickly how to control emotion. She was 
frightened a moment ago, now how calmly she sits — she trusts 
to my word. By Joxe, though! I hope the new mare will 

not turn hasty. How she starts at every shadow ; I trust 

Yes, my love, what is it ?” 

“I don’t know this road, Laurence. We ought to be at 
Putney by this time, ought we not?’ 

“All in good time, Cecilia. Is not our spin through the 
air jolly?” 

“Yes, delicious. What a splendid whip you are! but 
doesn’t the trap sway a good bit?” 

“Yes; but the springs are all right. We shall soon be on 
level ground, and then this swinging motion will cease. I 
hope you are not cold, Cecil?” 

“Not a bit. My cloak is very warm. I am enjoying my 
drive immensely. A queer kind of feeling comes over me as 


224 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


I sit here by your side. I want our ride to go on forever. 
I feel with Browning’s lover: 

“ What if we still ride on, we two, 

With life forever old yet new. 

“How you start, Laurence. What is the matter?” 

“Nothing, my love. The horses are a little fresh, no doubt, 
but they will soon tire themselves out and jog home all too 
quietly by and by. Oh, this is better. You don’t feel the 
swaying of the carriage now, do you?” 

“Not in the least, now that we are on level ground. I 
feel almost sleepy; I shall lean back and shut my eyes. 
Perhaps I shall go to sleep.” 

“Do, if you are tired. I will wake you when we get near 
home.” 

The mail phaeton in which they were driving had deep 
cushions and luxurious springs. Cecilia lay back, feeling 
lazy and soothed. She closed her eyes — she was really very 
tired — she dropped into a doze, and began to dream. 

In her dream she thought that she and her husband were 
flying through space on the back of a dragon. They were 
sitting close together, and Digby’s arm was round her waist. 
He was guiding the monster, who obeyed his slightest touch. 
Cecilia clasped in her arms a parcel. It contained those 
papers that gave full particulars with regard to her husband’s 
half gained discovery. Cecilia held the parcel close to her 
heart, which beat with loud throbs against it, but she held 
the packet firmly, although it hurt her with its weight and 
with the tightness of the pressure with which she kept it 
against her side. 

Phillips was pursuing the pair on another dragon, from 
whose mouth issued fire. Cecilia felt the hot flame, and she 
knew that the pursuing dragon and the man whom she mis- 
trusted so deeply gained and gained on them. His hand at 
last touched her shoulder, his other hand was stretched out to 
wrench Digby’s secret from her arms. She uttered a sharp 
cry, and awoke. She sat upright in her seat, white and 
trembling. Her dream had vanished, but the world of reality 
looked queer. What was the matter? Why were they go- 
ing at such reckless speed? Why did the phaeton jolt and 
bump and shiver? Digby was sitting bolt upright, well for- 
ward in his seat. He was holding the reins very high and tight. 
His eyes, stern in expression, looked straight before him. 


A WILD RIDE. 


225 


“What is the matter?” asked Cecilia, a sharp note of alarm 
in her voice. “Are the horses running away?” 

“I hope not,” replied Digby, “but they are excited.” 

“Are you anxious about them?” 

“Yes, rather. There is a train signaled to go over that 
bridge; I want to get past it before the train arrives. Don’t 
speak. Sit quiet. Try not to be afraid.” 

Cecilia murmured something. Her voice choked and failed 
her. The old terror of fainting came like a grim phantom 
before her vision. In a happy moment she remembered the 
words that her husband had said to her a short hour ago: 
“Remember that the bogie you dread is simply air. Run a 
sword through it, and it will vanish.” Poor Cecilia! Quick, 
like a flash, rose her broken, faltering prayer to the heavens: 

“Good Lord, deliver me! Give me strength not to show 
cowardice in this danger!” 

The answer, in the removal of the terror, came at once. 
She opened her eyes, and looked at her husband. He was 
standing up in the trap urging the horses to greater speed. 
They reached the bridge almost directly. Digby hoped that 
they would get to the other side before the train arrived; 
but he had made a miscalculation. Already the rumble and 
roar of the approaching monster reached his ears, and the next 
instant the great train thundered by, shaking the ground and 
causing a thousand reverberations as it dashed into space. 

The horses, already very nervous, pulled up short, and 
backed on to the phaeton. Digby caught his whip, and used 
it with such good effect that the horses again rushed forward 
for a few steps. 

“Hold on!” he shouted to his wife. “I think the worst is 
over.” 

“Look at the new mare !” she exclaimed in terror. “See 
how she is pulling — how excited she is; you will never be able 
to control her.” 

Digby could not reply. All his efforts w r ere concentrated 
in endeavoring to keep the horses within bounds. The mare 
was frightfully excited, and the older horse began to share her 
agitation. The rumble of another train was heard approach- 
ing. This was enough. The pair were off like the wind. 

“Give me a hand with the brutes, Cecilia,” said her hus- 
band. “Help me to hold the reins; I cannot manage them 
alone.” 

His words gave her new courage. It was inspiriting to feel 


226 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


that she could help him. She sprang to her feet, and, taking 
the reins, began pulling with all her might and main. 

“I think we can guide the horses until we get to that hill 
in the distance,” said Digby, “then the pull up will stop 

them. ” 

The perspiration stood on his face. He made almost hercu- 
lean exertions. As Cecilia held the reins by his side she felt 
she had slain the bogie of terror once and forever. 

This knowledge gave her fresh courage; the mad race grew 
faster and faster, but she ceased to be terrified. The more 
she exercised self-control the calmer she grew. 

“Whatever happens you must not jump out,” said Digby, 
his words coming in jerks, for the exertions he was making 
were depriving him of breath. “Whatever happens, stick to 
your seat, and hold on to the reins.” 

They were now approaching a narrow, rustic bridge. The 
carriage was swaying fearfully; as they reached the bridge it 
gave such a tremendous lurch that the pole was snapped in 
two. The horses, already mad with terror and excitement, 
instantly lost even the instinct of self-preservation. They 
rushed wildly to one side of the road, one of the wheels bumped 
against a projecting stone in the wall of the bridge. The jerk 
was terrible, and Cecilia, unable any longer to keep her seat, 
was hurled out of the trap. She lay stunned for a moment; 

then, dazed, trembling, and shaking in every limb, struggled 
to her feet. 

For a moment she remembered nothing. Her only sensa- 
tion was one of relief. Her feet rested once again on the 
solid earth. That horrible race with death and danger was at 
an end. She was shaken, of course, but, as far as she b could 
tell, she had sustained no serious injury. 

Where was her husband? She looked round for him. Had 
he, too, been thrown from the trap? Where was he? Where 
were the maddened horses and the phaeton? 

Cecilia rubbed her dazed eyes, and looked up and down the 
road in increasing agitation. 

A couple of cushions had been flung out of the trap, they 
lay almost at her feet, her husband’s whip also was tossed to 
the other side of the road. .Digby himself, however, was 
nowhere in sight. The horses and trap could not be seen. 

Cecilia began to call her husband’s name. She shouted it 
louder and louder; There was no answer. She ran along the 
road, looking eagerly to right and left. A thousand possibil- 


A WILD RIDE. 


22 1 


ities flitted through her brain. Surely if she had escaped 
unhurt, Laurence, who was so much wiser, and cleverer, and 
more athletic, must also have done so. It was ridiculous for 
her even to fancy, that anything had happened to him. As she 
had escaped, surely his safety went without saying. Cecilia 
had never known Digby’s nerve to desert him. He was ath- 
letic, too ; very quick and prompt in his movements. 

“Laurence !” she said, calling his name again, “Laurence !” 

There was no answer. There was no one in sight. Cecilia 
began to wonder if Digby could have retained his seat when 
she was hurled out of the trap. She thought it possible that 
he was still rushing through the air in that mad race. Surely 
this must be the case, otherwise he would come to her at 
once, alarmed and in terror with regard to her safety. 

She began to run along the road, looking eagerly to right 
and left. Now and then she called her husband’s name, but 
the thought that he was still with the horses grew stronger 
and stronger, for the more she reflected over the matter the 
more convinced she became that he would come to her at once 
if he could, and that her safety would be his first considera- 
tion. 

The moonlight was now very bright, and she could see a 
good way ahead of her. After the noise, and the rush, and 
the mad commotion, all nature seemed to have fallen asleep. 
Nothing living appeared to be in sight. The phaeton had 
vanished, the horses had disappeared, Laurence was no longer 
by her side. The occurrence of the past hour seemed to have 
passed like an ugly dream of the night. Only one thing re- 
mained. Cecilia found herself alone on a strange road, run- 
ning feebly and crying helplessly. Her white dress, so fresh 
when she had put it on in the morning, was now draggled 
and dusty. Her cloak had been torn from her when she was 
flung from the trap. She did not feel fatigued or cold. She 
was only conscious of an ever increasing terror. 

A voice sounded in her ears. She stood still as if the sound 
had given her an electric shock. 

“There’s a man in the ditch over yonder.” 

A rough looking countryman came up to her. He pointed 
with his hand backward along the road. 

“Be yer arunnin’ away fro’ he?” he asked. “The man’s , 
mortal bad, I’m feared.” 

“Where is he?” asked Cecilia. “He must be my husband. 
Take me to him.” 


228 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“He’s flung across a ditch over there. I’m a gwine for 
help for he. He don’t speak; had a bad fall most like. 
Be yours the horses I heard thundering up the hill just 
now?” 

“Yes, yes,” said Cecilia. “We were in a mail phaeton, 
and it got smashed. The pole was broken and I was flung 
out. I hoped my husband might have been still with the 
horses. Where is he? Take me to him. Let us go to him 
without a moment’s delay.” 

“Yerwas runnin’ away fro’ he. Come back, I’ll take you. 
He’s lying a many stones’ throw fro’ here. Were the trap a 
high un?” 

“Yes, very high — a mail phaeton; I was flung out. 
When I rose to my feet I saw neither horses nor trap; I 
hoped my husband might be still with them. Let us run back 
at once. Where did you say he was lying. I can see noth- 
ing in the road nor in the ditch, and my head begins to 
swim. ’ ’ 

Cecilia rushed down the road, the sturdy countryman 
trotted by her side. At last he drew up, and pointed with 
his hand. 

“There’s the man,” he said. “I’ll go for help to Farmer 
Nettle’s if yer like.” 

“Wait a moment, you may be required here.” 

Cecilia ran across the road and fell on her knees before 
the prostrate figure. Digby lay full length along the ditch, 
without any movement. 

“Laurence!” she cried, “Laurence!” His hat had been 
knocked off his head. His face was deadly white; there was 
a bluish gray tint over it; his eyes were closed. 

The ditch was a very wet one, and Cecilia felt the water 
soaking into her thin white dress. She pressed her hand on 
the sopping grass and on the tangle of weeds, and then laid 
it, cool and wet, on her husband’s brow. 

“Laurence,” she said again, “I am here. Cecilia is here. 
Open your eyes.” 

He obeyed her as if her touch had magic in it. 

“Well, Cecil,” he said, speaking with pauses, “we had 
— a narrow — shave.” He smiled at her, then his face grew 
whiter. 

“You are hurt!” she exclaimed in terror. 

“A little — perhaps,” he continued. “I must sell — that 
mare — Stella — she* played us — a — nasty prank.” He stopped 


A WILD HIDE. 


229 


speaking again as if his breath hurt him, then, making a great 
effort, continued in his usual manner: 

“You have escaped unhurt — what a blessing.” 

“Yes, I am as well as possible. How did you get into this 
ditch?” 

“Was shot into it, I expect — can’t say that I remember.” 

“Have yon been in a faint? Your eyes were shut when I 
found you.” 

“Perhaps I did faint, perhaps I was stunned.” 

“You are not much hurt?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Are you in pain?” 

“A little in the nape of the neck.” 

“Why do you lie like that without moving? You are ly- 
ing in a wet ditch. There is a man here, a countryman; he 
looks strong, he will help you to get up.” 

“Cecilia, will you do something for me?” 

“Need you ask?” 

“This is a simple thing, dearest, and yet much depends on 
it. Pinch my arm.” 

“Why?” she inquired. 

A look on his face caused the words to die on her lips. She 
pinched his arm with all her strength. 

“Do I hurt you?” she asked. 

“No, I wish you did. Pinch harder.” 

“Your coat is thick, Laurence. My hands are cold.” 

“Pinch my hand, then, or my leg. Do it hard. Ah! 
thank you, Cecilia, you have done your best.” 

“What do you mean? Why are you looking at me with 
such a queer expression?” 

“Don’t be frightened, Cecil. I have scarcely any pain, 
but I can’t get up or move. It would be better to get a doctor 
here if anyone — happens to live within call — that man — might 
run for one. If — a doctor can’t be — had — tell him to — bring 
a plank along — and to ask for further assistance. I — must — 
be moved — to the nearest — house — I can’t — return — to Lon- 
don.” 

With all his efforts to speak as usual, Digby’s words came 
out with odd pauses. 


230 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


CHAPTER VI. 

WAITING BY THE GOLDEN GATES. 

Years had produced little effect on Mrs. Lancaster. She 
had experienced few of the shocks which assail warmer and 
more impulsive natures. On this particular afternoon, in 
the beginning of a very hot July, she stood in her drawing 
room, looking exactly as she had done ten years ago. Not a 
day older, not a whit different in any way. An excited group 
were standing round Ler. They were talking and exclaiming. 
One of them was pacing up and [down before the windows ; 
another was sitting by the table, her hat thrown off, her face 
flushed, tears streaming down her cheeks. 

Mrs. Lancaster had a way of making her voice heard above 
any babel of ordinary sounds. It rose now,' shrill, hard, and 
piercing. 

“I might have known it,” she said; “I might have known 
that Cecilia’s luck would not last long. She was a most 
troublesome girl, and I have not the least doubt that she will 
be equally unmanageable as a widow. Dear, dear, dear! 
Why am I afflicted with a niece of this kind?” 

“Mamma,” said Millie Lancaster, stamping her foot, “your 
words are perfectly heartless ! In such a time as this who 
could think of poor Cecilia in anything but the kindest 
way?” 

“Who can think of her at all?” exclaimed Helen Phillips. 
“Who can think of anyone in all the world but that poor, dear 
Dr. Digby? Oh! it is dreadful. I do not think I have eyer 
felt so shocked in all my life. When the news reached me I 
fainted — James was quite terrified about me, and now — now 
— oh, mamma, how can you speak as you do?” 

“It is all very fine, my dear,” said Mrs. Lancaster. “I 
am just as kind-hearted as any one of you. I was extremely 
fond of Laurence Digby — I am extremely fond of him. I 
will frankly admit that I always thought him twenty times 
too good for Cecilia. I was delighted, of course, that she 
should have secured such an amiable and excellent husband. 
It took a great load off my mind, I can tell you, and, under 
his influence, I am quite willing to admit that she became 
vastly improved. I would do anything in the wide world to 
save the life of that poor, dear man, but, as that is impos- 
sible, you must forgive me, my dears, for not being so carried 


WAITING BY THE GOLDEN GATES. 


231 


away by mere pity as you are. I see the future plainly. 
Laurence Digby will die to-morrow, the next day, next week 
— anyhow, if the doctors are right, very soon. Cecilia will be 
a widow. I have not the smallest doubt that her means will 
be extremely limited. Laurence was so unworldly that he has 
probably saved nothing out of his income, and she and her 
child will be thrown on the world. I foresee, I plainly fore- 
see, that Cecilia will be a most troublesome widow. I am 
very sorry for her, of course, but I must be frank.’ ’ 

“There is a time for expressing frankness,” said George 
Lancaster, pausing in his walk up and down before the bay 
window. “I do not think we will pursue this discussion. 
How did you hear about the accident, Helen?” 

“A telegram came from Cecilia this morning,” said Helen. 
“Dr. Digby was moved to the farmhouse near by, and James 
and two other doctors went down by the first train this morn- 
ing to see him. I waited until James came back before I 
came over to tell you.” 

“My dear,” said Mrs. Lancaster, “I dare say that you have 
exaggerated your husband’s report. It seems almost incred- 
ible to me that a strong man like Dr. Digby should be killed, 
or at least mortally injured, by a mere fall from his trap.” 

“The trap was a high one, mamma, and James says that 
he must have got his foot entangled in the reins, or something 
of that sort — at any rate, the jar must have been frightful, 
and he was thrown a good distance.” 

“Cecilia, of course, managed to escape unhurt,” pursued 
Mrs. Lancaster. 

“Yes, it is a blessing she did, though James says it is also a 
perfect marvel. The trap was literally broken to bits, and 
the horses were so injured that when they were caught they 
had both to be shot at once. Oh, dear, dear! I can scarcely 
realize that anything so dreadful could have happened while 
we were safe and sound in our beds. Poor Cecilia! Poor, 
dear Dr. Digby! Why did they not come back with us by 
train?” 

“Yes, my dear, that is what is always said when the mis- 
chief is done. I have myself spoken to Laurence on the 
subject of his horses. He was not half careful enough. A 
doctor should never drive in anything but a brougham. I con- 
sider it absolutely improper for a medical man to rush over the 
country in one of those mail phaetons.” 

“He never drove it in town, mamma.” 


232 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“Well, my dear, he ought not to have driven it in the 
country; and what was it I heard about that mare? Oh, yes, 
I remember now. It belonged to young Frank Johnson. 
Everyone knows the kind of horses Frank keeps.” 

“Roberts, the groom, says that he never much liked the 
mare, but she was not at all vicious,” said Helen. “Well, 
I suppose I had better go home now.” 

She rose from her chair as she spoke. 

! “Yes, my love,” said her mother, going up and kissing her. 
“Be sure that you let us know if we can do anything, and if 
there is any change for the better. It is quite a common 
thing, remember, for a man’s case to be declared hopeless, and 
yet for him to recover. You are the wife of a doctor, Helen, 
but I do not mind telling you that doctors are not infal- 
lible.” 

“I wish, mamma, that there was the least chance of your 
words proving true. James says that he does not think there 
is the shadow of hope; he is sure that Dr. Digby sustained 
fracture of the spine when he fell. He is completely para- 
lyzed, and James considers that it is merely a question of 
days.” 

“Well, well,” said Mrs. Lancaster, rubbing her hands, “it 
really is a most terrible calamity. The ways of ‘Providence 
are mysterious. Such a good, useful man; now, if it had 
been Cecilia ” 

“Mamma, do try and have a kindly feeling toward poor 
Cecilia now.” 

“Oh, yes, my dear. I will do everything in my power for 
her when she needs my help. Are you going to her, Helen? 
I hope not. She will most probably be in a dreadful state of 
excitement, and you are really not strong enough to stand it. 
I suppose one or two nurses have been sent down to that 
farm?” 

“No, Cecilia is doing everything herself, and she is not the 
least excited. James says he never saw her calmer.” 

“I am glad of that. That good, excellent man, her hus- 
band, may have taught her some common sense. I hope it 
will last after he is removed. I would go to her myself if she 
needed me.” 

“No, mamma, she will not need you. James is going 
down again this evening, and I may go with him; I am not 
sure.” 

“I wouldn’t, if I were you, Helen; but if you absolutely 


WAITING BY THE GOLDEN GATES. 


233 


make up your mind to do so, you can send the child over 
here.” 

“They have sent for Nance, mamma. James is going to 
take her down to-night.” 

“How wrong! I call it absolutely wicked to take a young 
child into scenes of that sort. And a delicate, consumptive 
child, too ! I am sure that is not poor Laurence Digby’s 
doing.” 

“Yes, mamma, he has asked for her several times.” 

“Have you told the poor little thing of the accident?” 

“We have told her something. She takes the news quietly. 

I never saw a sweeter little creature.” 

“She doesn’t realize it, poor little thing,” said Mrs. Lan- 
caster, “it isn’t likely. Well, Helen, take care of yourself, 
and, if you think anything of your mother’s advice, stay in 
town and send a sensible, capable nurse down to Cecilia 
Digby. If you were still under my charge, I should forbid 
you to go to that farm, but, of course, I have no control over 
Hr. Phillips’s wife. What is that ‘you are saying, Millie? 
No, my dear, you are not to go to Cecilia Digby.” 

“I am going down,” said George. “I may be of no use, 
whatever, but I shall take the next train down. I shall prob- 
ably not be back to-night.” 

“You will be terribly in the way, George, but if you will 
insist in putting yourself into a false position ” 

“Yes, mother, I shall go down. Come along, Nell, I can 
see you home first.” 

The brother and sister left the room, and Mrs. Lancaster 
scolded poor little Millie for several minutes and made herself 
very cross generally. 

Mrs. Lancaster did not look a day older, and apparently 
the years had brought no change; but that sure thing had hap- 
pened to her that comes to all natures — she had not stood still. 
It is impossible to stand still for a single instant in life. We 
must go down hill or we must go up. Mrs. Lancaster had 
become a little harder and a little more uncharitable as the 
years went by. The spirit of loving kindness grew fainter 
and fainter in her breast. The spirit of hardness and world- 
liness strengthened day by day within her. Like all other 
human beings, she had been made in the Divine likeness, but 
that likeness was gradually yet surely fading from her nature. 
She was not considered a bad woman, and she thought ex- 
tremely well of herself, but had Christ lived on earth in Mrs. 


234 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Lancaster’s time He would have pronounced one of His 
hardest sentences against her. 

George and Helen went straight back to Hartrick Street. 
Phillips was there, in a state of great excitement. He was 
making arrangements to bring Sir Charles Mackenzie, the 
great specialist for spine injuries, down to see Digby that even- 
ing. All was confusion and movement. Helen felt a certain 
relief in rushing about and doing things. * She went herself 
to superintend the packing of a basket with every conceivable 
delicacy in it for Higby’s use. Fruit, ices, jellies, cham- 
pagne, were all put into this basket. She bought the rarest 
flowers to place in the top, and her tears fell as she packed the 
various things, which, after all, might soothe, but were power- 
less to give the sick man the slightest relief. 

The nearest railway station to the scene of the accident was 
Hampton Wick. Phillips, taking little Nance with him, and 
accompanied by Sir Charles Mackenzie and another surgeon, 
arrived there between six and seven that evening, and drove 
over at once to the Nettles’ farm. The farm was nearly tw'O 
miles from the station. It was a poor sort of place; the 
house rambling and very old-fashioned ; the rooms had low 
ceilings and small windows. 

When the doctors drove up to the farmhouse door Cecilia 
was standing on the steps. Her face had undergone a curious 
change, which so completely altered its expression that Nance, 
when she sprang from Phillips’s arms to her mother’s, noticed 
it, and began softly to stroke her cheeks. 

“What are you doing that for, Nance?” she asked. 

“I want your face to alter, mother. I don’t like that new, 
funny face you have on a bit.” 

Cecilia pressed the child close to her heart, and went into 
the house with her. 

“My darling,” she said, “I may well have a new and altered 
face; everything has changed with me since you saw me last. 
I can’t cry, and I don’t know that I suffer particularly, but 
I feel as if my heart was dead.” 

“Sit down, mother,” said Nance, in her comforting way, 
“and let me cuddle up into your arms. How cold you are, 
mother, and I am nice and warm. Feel me, I’m all glowing. 
Perhaps your heart won’t stop dead long when I am close to 
you. I love you so very, very much, mother.” 

“Ah, my sweet, I forgot about you when I said all the 
world had changed. Give me one big kiss, Nance, and 


WAITING BY TUE GOLDEN GATES. 


235 


then — your supper is waiting for you, darling, you must 
eat it.” 

“I’m not a bit hungry. I want to go to father. Mother, 
is it true that father has done curing people? Cousin Helen 
said so to-day, but I didn’t believe her.” 

“I am afraid it is true, Nance, but I cannot stay to talk to 
you about it now. Do you mind staying here alone for a little, 
while you eat your supper?” 

“No, mother, I don’t mind a bit.” 

Cecilia left the room, closing 'the door behind her, and 
Nance stood in the center of the ugly farmhouse parlor, swing- 
ing her hat on her arm. 

Her little pale face wore a puzzled and pathetic expression. 
She was not exactly unhappy, but her supper seemed distaste- 
ful; she turned from the bowl of hot bread and milk, and, 
walking to the lattice window, pressed her face against it, 
and looked out. 

The queer, changed look on her mother’s face kept flashing 
again and again before her eyes. Why had the world suddenly 
changed to her bright, pretty, laughing mother? And why 
would her father never again cure people? 

Unpleasant, suspicious whispers had been round the little 
girl all day; wherever she went people looked at her queerly. 
When she entered a room the conversation was abruptly 
changed; she was petted rather more than usual. Nance did 
not like to be petted by strangers, and people said, “Poor 
child! poor little dear!” whenever she turned her back. 

Henny-Penny had spent almost the whole day crying. She 
would not tell Nance what she cried about, and when the child 
had submitted to several fervent but damp embraces, she 
left her nurse in some displeasure. 

“You ought to control yourself, Henny-Penny,” she said. 
“Father likes people to control themselves. He says it is not 
at all brave to cry, even if you do feel sorry.” 

Nance had been told that her father was suffering from a 
very bad fall from the trap, but this news, uttered many times 
and in many shapes, failed to seriously alarm her. She had no 
past experience with regard to falls to make her frightened. 
She was very glad indeed when Phillips told her that he was 
going to take her to her father and mother, and she felt abso- 
lutely certain that when she saw her mother the queer 
cloud which was hanging over everything would pass 
away. 


236 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Well, she had seen her, but the cloud had not passed away; 
on the contrary, it seemed to grow blacker. 

Nance wondered what it could mean. She had an idea deep 
down in her little soul that doctors — particularly very clever 
ones like her father — were always able to cure themselves. 
They knew just the right medicines to use and the right means 
to employ, and if they did happen to be ill or hurt they were 
quite certain to be as well as ever before long. 

Nance had been hungry before she entered the farmhouse, 
but now she could not touch her nice bowl of bread and milk. 
She stood by the lattice window, which was partly open, and 
looked out. There were roses twining all round the window, 
and some of them peeped in, and, swayed by the sweet even- 
ing breezes, nodded to Nance as she stood gazing with her 
wistful eyes into their hearts. 

They reminded her of the roses she had sent to Harper, and 
in especial, of the great crimson rose she had kissed. Her 
father had said that Harper liked that rose, that he‘had taken 
the kisses into heaven with him. 

A sudden sound of voices fell on the child’s ears. Three men 
came and stood at a little distance from the open window. 

Nance hid herself behind the roses and looked at them. 
They were the three doctors who had traveled down with her 
to Hampton Wick. They began to talk to one another. 

“It’s all up with him, then, poor fellow,” said the surgeon 
who had accompanied Sir Charles Mackenzie to the farm. 

“ ‘Poor fellow’ — that must mean father,” said Nance. She 
bent forward, her heart beating, her eyes growing round and 
dilated. She did not mind whether she was a little eaves- 
dropper or not. 

“I spoke to him this morning,” said Phillips, “but he could 
not reply without considerable difficulty, and could give no 
definite account of the accident.” 

“From the nature of the injury,” remarked Sir Charles 
Mackenzie, “he probably came with great force on the back of 
his neck. You say the trap was a high one? I have known 
a man thrown from a trap of that sort who absolutely turned 
a somersault in the air before he reached the ground. How 
did his wife find him? Was he unconscious?” 

“He was lying in a wet ditch,” said Phillips. “She said he 
seemed stunned at first, but he soon spoke to her, and told her 
that he was unable to move. He did not complain of much 
pain, but there was numbness of the limbs and uneasiness about 


WAITING BY THE GOLDEN GATES. 


237 


thfe nape of the neck. He was perfectly collected, however, 
and gave all directions about his removal to this farm. They 
sent first of all for the local doctor, but he was not at home, 
so they brought him here on a plank.” 

“ I have examined him most carefully,” said Sir Charles. 
“ There is evidently injury to the spinal cord, though I can 
find no fracture of the spinal column. It is evidently one of 
those cases where there has been a partial dislocation with a 
quick return of the vertebrae.” * 

“And there is absolutely no chance of a recovery?” asked 
Phillips. 

“The cord has been much crushed and injured. Recovery 
in such cases always depends.on the amount of injury to the 
spinal cord. In this case it is high up, from the paralysis 
which exists below the neck. The worst sign of the case is 
the state of the patient’s respiration. He does not breathe 
from the throat at all.” 

Nance’s little white face was pressed closer and closer to the 
sheltering rose tree. The doctors’ words were Greek to her, 
but their looks, their gestures, their solemnity, filled her 
with a sick apprehension. What did they mean by the spinal 
cord? What was paralysis? Surely her father was not the 
one spoken of when they said 4 ‘he has no chance of re- 
covery”? The doctors spoke in very strange language, but 
their words held her motionless with a horrible fascination. 

The three men paced up and down, up and down. They 
seemed to know that Nance was listening, they kept so close 
to the rose tree. 

A sound of wheels was heard in the distance. It was the 
hired trap coming to take Sir Charles Mackenzie and Mr. 
Crichton back to London. 

“I can do no more good,” said Sir Charles, turning to 
Phillips; “he may live a day or two, not more. Yes, he will 
retain his intelligence to the last. An operation did you say? 
An operation in his case would not be of the slightest avail. 
There is no displacement. The fact of paralysis being so 
complete from the first shows that the ” 

The last words fell faintly on Nance’s ears. The doctors 
were walking toward the front of the house, where the trap 
stood. 

“Shows the — shows what?” she said to herself, clasping her 
hands. “Oh, I’m glad there’s not going to be an operation. 
Operations hurt people. Henny-Penny has told me about 


238 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


them; they are cruel. I am glad father is not going to be 
hurt. I’ll go to him now. I wonder where he is. What 
very queer words the doctors spoke. Who is the person who 
is not going to recover? I don’t believe for moment that 
it’s father.” 

Still holding her hat on her arm, Nance opened the sitting 
room door, and went into the passage. 

The house was strange to her, and there was no one about 
to tell her the way. She walked through an empty kitchen 
with rafters across the ceiling. In the passage beyond the 
kitchen was an oak door which was shut, and just at the other 
side of the door were some narrow, steep stairs leading up into 
the roof of the old farmhouse. ^ 

Nance began to climb the stairs, looking up as she did so. 

A blowsy, fat farm maid came clattering down. 

“Hush,” said Nance, “you oughtn’t to make so much 
noise.” 

“Oh, lawk-a-daisy,” said the maid, falling back in aston- 
ishment, “who’s this little maid?” 

“I’m Nance Digby,” said the child, in her gentle voice. 
“Can you tell me in which room my father is?” 

“In that room, missy,” pointing to the oak door. “But 
maybe you oughtn’t to go in. Shall I call my missus to you?” 

“No, thank you; I want to speak to father. Of course I 
may go in.” 

“ But missy ” 

Nance did not hear. She had turned back, stepped lightly 
down the stairs, and, lifting the ponderous latch of the old door, 
found herself in a room nearly as large as the kitchen, which 
had been extemporized into a bedroom for the time being. 

A rude bed had been erected in the middle of the room, and 
the first thing Nance saw when she entered was the familiar 
face of her father looking at her from the bed. 

Her little heart gave a bound of childish delight. He was 
not so very ill, then. He looked pretty much as usual. A 
little pale and tired, perhaps, but, of course, he would look 
like that after his bad fall. What a fuss those silly doctors 
had made, and what a lot of rubbish they had spoken! 

Nance, in her sudden delight at finding the dreadful cloud 
of apprehension lifted from her mind, came with little bounds 
and skips across the room. She sprang lightly on the bed, 
and began rapturously to kiss his lips and forehead. 

♦‘Hear little Nance!” said Digby. 


WAITING BY THE GOLDEN GATES. 


239 


His voice was weak, and the words came slowly. 

The child started back when he spoke to her, and gazed at 
him earnestly. The fears which she had thought banished for- 
ever began to come to her, but she fought against them. 

“I’m so glad I’m with you, father,” she said, nestling down 
comfortably by his side. I have been longing to be with you 
all day, ever since I heard you had a bad fall. It was Roberts, 
the groom, told me first. He said, ‘Drat that Stella! I never 
could abide her, and now she’s gone and done for the doctor !’ 
He said she was ‘ that flighty.’ ” 

“Hush, Nance, never mind what Roberts said.” 

“ I don’t mind what anybody says now I’m with you. And 
poor Stella didn’t do for you, because you don’t look at all 
bad. Just a little white, perhaps, but that’s because you had 
a bad fall. Do you like to have me like this, lying close to 
you, father?” 

“Very much indeed, my love.” 

“It’s awfully snug, I think.” Nance snuggled up a little 
closer to Digby. 

“Father,” she said, after a pause, “I heard the doctors talk- 
ing about you.” 

“ Ah ! where were you, my love?” 

“I was in the ugly little parlor downstairs, with a bowl of 
bread and milk. I didn’t want the bread and milk, and the 
window of the parlor was open, and there were a lot of roses 
in full flower at the other side of the window, and some of 
them had pushed their way into the room. I stood at the 
other side of the roses, and Dr. Phillips, and Sir Charles 
Mackenzie, and Mr. Crichton came and walked about on the 
gravel outside, and they talked about you.” 

“ You listened to what they said? That was wrong, Nance,” 
said Digby, with a slow, half comical smile. 

“I couldn’t help it — their talk interested me awfully; it 
was all about you.” 

“ That goes without saying, Nance. They came down here 
to see me.” 

“They called you a poor fellow,” said Nance; “and they 
said that your recovery depended on the amount of the injury ; 
and they said it was a bad sign to have parasisis below the 
neck, and that you turned a somersault when you fell. 
Father, what’s the matter ? You look as if you were going 
to laugh, and yet you didn’t want to laugh. Have I frightened 
you with the doctors’ words? Perhaps I shouldn’t have told 


240 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


them to you. But never mind ; 1 think those doctors are a lot 
of old sillies! You are not really a bit bad; you don’t look 
it.” 

“Kiss me, Nance,” said Digby. “Keep your head near 
mine. It is a very comfortable little head to feel close to 
me as I grope — as I descend — ah ! yes, child, what were you 
saying? Your mother — you must take great care of your 
mother, Nance. What’s the matter, darling? Have the 
doctors gone yet?” 

“I heard them driving away.” 

Nance did not speak again for some time. She turned her 
head slightly, so as to watch her father’s face. 

Digby was lying on his back; his eyes were open. 

“How still you keep, father,” she said at last ; “you have 
not moved once since I jumped on the bed. Are you very, 
very tired?” 

“I stay still because I cannot move, Nancy.” 

“Can’t you, really? You must have had a bad fall! I 
shall hate Stella as long as I live. Father?” 

“My little love?” 

“ You don’t believe those doctors? You don’t think that 
recovery depends on the amount of the injury, and you don’t 
think it is a bad sign for parasisis ” 

“Nance, listen to me,” said Digby. He turned his head 
very slightly. His eyes were fixed on the child. “You have 
always been a very brave little girl.” 

“I?” Nance’s face grew very white. “ I have tried to be 
brave. You like me to be brave, don’t you?” 

“ I love you when you are brave. I want you to be brave 
now.” 

“I will, father, I will.” 

Digby was silent for about half a minute. Nance sat up 
on the pillow and watched him. 

“ I can’t say many more words to you, my little Nance,” 
he began at last, in a slow voice. “ My fall has hurt me very 
much, and it is difficult to — speak. I have often told you of 
the Golden Gates at the end of the road. Sometimes they 
seem a long way off, and we think that we shall take years and 
years before we reach them. But the strange thing about 
those gates, Nance, is this: When we think they are far, far 
away something happens; we look up, we find ourselves 
standing by them. The long road is ended, and we have 
reached the Golden Gates. Do you understand me?” 


'I WAS EVER A FIGHTER: 


241 


“Yes, father, I — I think so.” 

“You are a very brave little girl. I love you with all my 
heart. Nance, shall I go on?” 

“Please, father.” 

“When I had that fall last night, that thing I told you of 
happened. I opened my eyes, and behold! the Golden Gates 
were a few feet away. I am waiting by them now.” 

“Are they going to be opened very, very soon, father?” 

“Very soon, my little Nancy.” 

CHAPTER VII. 

“i WAS EVER A FIGHTER.” 

Cecilia had made the ugly farm room as pretty as she 
could; she had put flowers about it, and slightly opened the 
casement windows. The early morning air was pouring into 
the room, sweet and fresh with the scent of the outside world. 
The sun had risen in great majesty, and some of his beams 
were also stealing into the chamber. Cecilia had changed her 
travel-stained and dirty white dress for another quite fresh 
and pretty, her hair was neatly arranged, and her whole ap- 
pearance had the effect of a person who was not tired, not 
anxious, not in trouble of any sort. 

All the emotions within her breast were kept under lock and 
key for the present. Cecilia knew that Digby was going to 
die, but a strange thing had happened. With the knowledge 
came also a wonderful and almost unnatural power. She was 
not inclined to faint, she did not cry, she did not moan. 

“Time enough for that presently,” she said to herself. 
“ To the very end he shall see me as he has always liked to see 
me. That nervousness which he so dreaded shall not worry 
him. All those hysterical feelings which he has begged of 
me to conquer shall not appear. I will show him that I have 
learned my lesson — the lesson which his presence and his 
training for ten long, beautiful years have given me. I told 
him when little Nance was so ill long ago that I should do 
better next time. Next time has come, and I am doing 
better. ” 

Cecilia murmured these words to herself many times through 
the night which had just passed: now, with the morning, she 
stood by her husband’s side. 

All that the doctors had prophesied had come to pass. As 
the hours flew by Digby grew weaker and weaker. 


242 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“He will die from exhaustion,” Sir Charles Mackenzie had 
said. “As the time goes on the paralysis which affects all the 
upper portion of his body will become more and more marked 
— his speech will become more difficult — his ability to swallow 
food less and less. He will keep his consciousness to the last, 
and he will probably suffer not at all.” 

This was the great man’s verdict, and it was carried out in 
Digby’s case in every particular. 

Cecilia stood erect by the bedside. The rays of the sun be- 
gan to steal across the floor. They came farther and farther 
into the room and touched her white dress, and crept slowly 
farther and farther up her person until they shone upon her 
slim, lovely hands, and then touched her bright hair with a 
kind of glory. Digby lay on his pillows and watched her. 

“Cecilia,” he murmured, “your conduct during the past 
night has astonished me.” 

“You have told me in the past what to do, and I am doing 
it,” she replied. “Don’t think of me now, think of your- 
self. ” 

“My dear,” he said, “I have no need to think of myself. 
My thoughts are for you and Nance. Cecilia, you are a brave 
woman. I am glad to think that Nance will have a brave 
mother. She is a wonderfully brave little child herself.” 

“Laurence, I must ask you one thing,” said Cecilia, with a 
break in her voice at last. “Nothing can startle me much 
now, and it is necessary for me to know. Is Nance likely 
to die of consumption?” 

A faint flicker of pain passed over Digby’s face. 

“She has the hereditary taint in her system,” he answered, 
with slow pauses in his voice. “You must take care of her; 
I can say nothing further.” 

“ O Laurence, if only you had lived to perfect your dis- 
covery.” 

He opened his eyes very wide when she said this, and looked 
at her with anxiety. 

“ How wicked of me to trouble your last moments,” she said. 

“Never mind,” he replied, “I am glad you reminded me. 
Stoop down — I have something to say. My discovery — 
Cecilia, had I lived, something might have come of it. I 
die. There are papers — directions — Cecilia — you must not 
let Phillips — get hold of them. You know the large secretary 
in my room? Go to it — after I am gone. Open the drawer — 
the top cjrawer — at the left-hand side — you will find papers — 


I WAS EVER A FIGHTER. 


243 


they are marked ‘Germ Theory — Imperfect.’ They are all 
tied together — take them and — either burn them or fasten 
them up and seal them, and take them from me to Dr. 
Dickinson. Tell him anything you like. Tell him if you 
please — the story — I told you. But tell him also that my 
discovery in its present form is useless, dangerous. Be sure 
— Cecilia — that you say — to use the attenuated lymph on a 
human being in its present form would be — highly danger- 
ous. Do you hear me?” 

“Yes, yes.” 

“Don’t forget — burn the papers if you like, but never — I 
charge you, Cecilia, never to let them get into the hands of 
that unscrupulous man, James Phillips.” 

“I promise never to do so,” said Cecilia. “I promise most 
faithfully.” 

“ Then I am satisfied. I commit you — to my God, my dear, 
dear wife. I commit you and little Nance to His tender 
mercies. The day breaks — I shall not be here when the sun 
sets. Kneel by me and pray.” 

Cecilia did kneel, the sun’s rays streaming now all over her 
dress and slight figure. Digby’s hand lay outside the bed- 
clothes; she pressed her cheeks against it as she murmured 
broken words. 

“You don’t fear death?” she said suddenly, looking into 
his eyes. 

“No,” he replied, “I have seen it too often. Do you know 
Browning’s ‘Prospice’? Can you repeat the lines?” 

“ ‘Fear death’? ” began Cecilia. “Is that the piece you 
mean?” 

“Yes, say it for me now. Begin not there: begin from 
‘I was ever a fighter.’ ” 

“ ‘I was ever a fighter,”’ began Cecilia. She cleared her 
throat; her words fell on the dying man’s ear, sweet and 
firm : 


‘ ‘ I was ever a fighter— so one fight more, 

The best and the last ! 

I would hate that death bandage my eyes, and forbore, 
And bade me creep past. 

No ! Let me taste the whole of it, fair like my peers, 
The heroes of old, 

Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life’s arrears 
Of pain, darkness, and cold. 

For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, 

The black minutes at end, 


244 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


And the elements’ rage, the fiends’ voices that ra^e 
Shall dwindle, shall blend, 

Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, 
Then a light, then thy breast, 

Oh, thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee again, 
And with God be thee rest 1 ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

in digby’s consulting room. 

One of the saddest things in life, one of the most absolutely 
mournful things to reflect on, is this: However good we are, 
however useful, however valuable the work we do, the world 
can get on very well without us. 

From the prince on his throne to the pauper who struggles 
to put bread into his children’s mouths, this fact is illustrated 
every day. 

One or two hearts break when we pass out of sight, one or 
two people go halt and maim through life for the rest of the 
journey, but the world at large continues to travel on its way 
just as it did before. For a week there is a fuss and a com- 
motion, a wailing and a beating of hands. What will the 
world do, now that great light has gone out — that shining star 
no longer exists in the firmament? The old order must change 
at last — day must cease to follow night. Laughter must be 
stopped, mirth must die ! 

Hut day does not cease to follow night, and laughter goes 
on, and mirth is as gay as ever it was, and people feast and 
are merry, and find the world still a very good place. Other 
men step into the dead man’s shoes and the dead man is 
practically forgotten. 

Laurence Digby died. He was known to a very large circle 
of people, and his death made a profound impression. It was 
reported in the daily newspapers. Biographical sketches of 
his life were written, and his photograph appeared in some of 
the weekly illustrated papers. His patients were intensely 
sorry ; his brother physicians said that his death was a great 
loss to science. 

Digby died, and was buried. He had a great funeral; his 
patients from far and near came to see him laid to rest in 
Highgate Cemetery. 

Cecilia stood by her husband’s grave. She raised her eyes 


IN DIO BY } 8 CONSULTING ROOM. 


245 


to find herself surrounded by a sea of faces. Many of them — 
most of them, in fact — belonged to poor people. The crowd 
was full of sorrow, for a brother as well as a physician had 
passed from their midst; but in a week or two these people 
called in another doctor. This doctor also spoke kind words, 
and soothed their pains, and helped them to. forget their 
miseries; Digby was not forgotten; but the world went on. 
It would have been very sad had it been otherwise. 

Phillips had been extremely sorry for Digby. The tragic 
and sudden nature of his death even touched the cold and cal- 
culating heart of James Phillips. It was impossible for him 
to be jealous of a dead man. When jealously died, he found 
his memory bringing him day by day and hour by hour, pleas- 
ant recollections of the man whose work had been so suddenly 
terminated. Phillips had hated Digby living, but he felt a 
kind of affection for him now that he lay in his silent grave at 
Highgate. He was intensely sorry for Cecilia. He felt that 
he would like to adopt Nance as his own child, and he was 
unremitting in those small acts of kindness which go far to 
comfort in a time of bitter grief. Phillips would have given 
much to be able to restore Digby to life once more. With 
his death something had gone out of his own life. A hope 
— a very strong hope — had been buried in Digby’s grave. 
Phillips had not a spark of originality or inventiveness in 
him. He could never hope now to persuade Digby to share 
his secret with him. He thought of this day and night, and 
fretted and fumed inwardly. 

Phillips was a man with an intense tenacity of purpose. He 
was not clever, he was not learned. With regard to attain- 
ments, he was truly superficial. But ambition grew with the 
food on which it lived, and Phillips felt very sore — very sore, 
indeed — when Digby’s death brought before him the patent 
fact that he could never now win a world-wide reputation for 
himself. 

Cecilia did not come back to the house in Hartrick Street at 
once. She followed her husband to his grave, and then re- 
turned to the farmhouse at Hampton Wick. The good farmer 
and his wife were very kind to her, and she liked to sit in the 
room where her husband had breathed his last and muse over 
the words he had said to her, and think, in a kind of subdued, 
stunned way, about her future. Nance used to sit at her 
mother’s feet and chatter, chatter in soft tones as the hours 
went by. Nance had a sweet voice, and her little talk was 


246 


TIIE MEDICINE LADY. 


very pretty to listen to. She seemed to know a good deal of 
what went on at the other side of the Golden Gates, and she 
was fond of telling her mother what she imagined her father 
might be doing at the present moment. Nothing gave Cecilia 
so much pleasure as to listen to Nance’s pretty imaginings. 

Digby was in his grave for over a week, and yet Cecilia 
could not yet bring herself to return to Hartrick Street. 

A letter from Helen Phillips lay by her side. 

“You ought to come,” wrote Helen. “Things are in great 
confusion at No. 48. James says you ought to be on the 
spot.” 

Cecilia threw the letter on the floor, and did not reply to 
it. She went on listening to Nance’s pretty talk. 

“Now, Nan,” she said, “what next? What is father doing 
now?” 

“He often comes to the gates,” began Nance, looking 
straight before her in her dreamy fashion. “Mother, what’s 
the matter? Why do you start?” 

“I saw a boy with a telegram in his hand pass the window,” 
answered Mrs. Digby. “Run, Nance, darling, and see if it 
is for me.” 

Nance obeyed. She brought back the little yellow enve- 
lope, and gave it to her mother. 

Cecilia tore the telegram open, and read its contents. 
They were from Phillips : 

“If you are not coming back, send me the keys of your 
husband’s secretary by post. Important. Am writing.” 

The telegram floated down to the floor, and lay beside the 
letter. Cecilia clasped her hands before her, and, bending 
slightly forward, sat and stared out of the window. 

“ Is there any answer for the telegraph boy, mother?” asked 
Nance. 

“No, my darling, no answer.” 

Nance ran to the lattice w'indow, pushed it open, and 
peeped out. 

“There’s no answer, boy,” she cried in her sweet voice. 

Then she went back and resumed her seat on the footstool 
by her mother’s side. 

“Shall I go on, mother?” she asked. “He’s at the Golden 
Gates by now. He can see through them, and he’s looking 
down into the world.” 


IN LUGBY’S CONSULTING ROOM. 


247 


“Don’t, Nance!” said Cecilia suddenly, in a voice choked 
with pain. “ I can’t bear it just now. Run away, dearest, and 
have a game in the hay field; I’ll come out to you presently.” 

Nance gave her mother a quick, wistful look; she did not 
question, however — to question was never her fashion; she 
went slowly out of the room, a painful droop and want of 
vitality in her slender little figure. 

Cecilia locked the door when Nance had left her, and, 
picking up Phillips’s telegram from the floor, read it again. 

“What does he want with my husband’s keys?” she said 
to herself. “Oh, I know that he has been kind; he has been 
more than kind. He has taken all trouble off my hands. 
He and Helen have been, like a brother and sister to me in 
this dreadful time. Of course he wants the keys to search 
for Laurence’s will. If he were anyone else I would give 
them to him. I hate myself for being suspicious, but I can- 
not — I cannot give those precious keys to anyone, least of all 
to James Phillips.” 

There came a knock at Cecilia’s door. Nance’s little voice 
was heard in eager tones outside. 

“Mother! Cousin George has come down from London to 
see you.” 

“What a relief!” said Cecilia to herself. “Dear George! 
No one would suspect him of anything underhand.” 

She opened the bedroom door, and went into the sitting 
room. 

George was standing with his back to the light. His 
figure was inclined to stoutness, his face was broad and 
good-humored. He came up to Cecilia, and clasped both her 
hands in his old, affectionate manner. 

“I am truly sorry to bother you,” he began, “but Phillips 
sent me down. He wired to you first, and then he thought 
that I had better come. We want poor Digby’s keys. May 
I have them to take back with me?” 

“Which keys do you want, George? Some have already 
been given to James Phillips.” 

“ The keys of the large secretary standing under the window 
in the consulting room.” 

“I would rather keep those keys.” 

“ Why?” 

“My husband kept papers in that secretary of a strictly 
private character. I do not wish anyone to examine his papers 
but myself,” 


248 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“ Then, forgive me, Cecilia — its’ a sin to worry you — but 
you ought to come back to town.” 

“I shall come in a day or two.” 

“You ought to come at once. Digby’s will cannot be 
found. It is sure to be in that locked up secretary; and we 
also want a copy of the lease of your house. I have an idea 
that Digby took Forty-eight on a long lease.” 

“ On a twenty-eight years’ lease,” replied Cecilia. “We 
have been there a little over seven years.” 

“There are twenty-one years yet to run,” said Lancaster. 
“That is good. Phillips is not leaving a stone unturned to 
help you, Cecilia; he hopes to get a good sum of money for 
you and Nance by a sale“of the lease. There are two doctors 
already inquiring about the house. Mr. Crichton, the surgeon 
who came down here, is one. He is most anxious to conclude 
the matter at once. Phillips thinks you might let him have 
both furniture and lease. It would be an excellent arrange- 
ment. What is the matter? How white you look! Are 
you going to faint?” 

“Faint? No, George.” Cecilia’s eyes shone with a queer 
expression. Suffering, long endurance, fortitude, and resolve, 
all leaped out of her eyes. She held herself erect, and looked 
full at her cousin. 

It was impossible for him to understand the glance she 
gave him. He was conscious of an odd sensation, and 
hastened to change the subject. 

“It’s cruel of me to worry you with details now,” he said. 
“Phillips and I are most anxious to spare you everything. 
If you will intrust me with the keys I will examine the secre- 
tary myself. We just want to find the lease and the will.” 

Cecilia hesitated for a moment. In that brief moment 
certain words came back to her memory: “I charge you, 
Cecilia, not to let my papers get into the hands of that un- 
scrupulous man, James Phillips.” 

“I cannot give you the keys, George,” she answered. 
“ But I will bring them up to town myself to-morrow. It is 
cowardly of me to shrink from the pain of going back to 
Forty-eight.” 

“I will catch the next train to town, then,” said Lancaster. 
“Is that you, Nance? Come in, come in! How white you 
look! Cecilia, that child isn’t strong. You ought to give 
her cod-liver oil — I know where you can get it cheap. Oh, by 
Jove!” glancing at the clock, “is that the right hour? I’ll 


IN RIGBY’S CONSULTING ROOM. 


249 


be off at once. I’ll barely catch my train. By-by, Cecil. 
By-by, little kid! Eat all you can, and keep your mother 
cheerful.” 

George’s sturdy figure was seen running down the lane. 
Cecilia and Nance stood by the window and watched him. 

“I don’t like Cousin George to call me a kid!” said Nance 
in a fretful voice. 

She glanced at her mother for sympathy, but Cecilia’s 
thoughts were miles away. 

George went back to town, and told Phillips that Cecilia 
would not part with the keys of the secretary. 

“ It is very unreasonable of her, then,” answered Phillips, 
his face flushing with anger. 

“ Oh, she’ll come up herself to-morrow and look over the 
papers with us.” 

“ That’s all very fine. She may lose a good let by her 
scruples. Crichton is almost sure to take Forty-eight, and to 
pay a good figure for the lease, if only he can see it. Fifty- 
four and Sixty are also in the market, and, as he is in a hurry, 
he may close with either of them. I should not be in the least 
surprised if he gave from £700 to £1000 for the lease of 
Forty-eight, and if he bought the furniture into the bargain. 
What a lift that would be for Mrs. Digbjr — and all thrown 
away for a whim ! I have no patience with women. Their 
unreason passes bounds.” 

“I don’t suppose Crichton wants to decide to-day?” queried 
Lancaster. 

“My dear fellow, that’s just the point. I was to take the 
lease over to him this evening, and he was to show it to his 
solicitor in the morning. Mrs. Digby ought to have come 
up to town with you if she would not trust us with the 
keys. ” 

“You can scarcely understand,” began Lancaster. He 
stopped. He felt he could not explain himself. There was 
something unearthly about the farm, about Cecilia in her 
black dress, about Nance, who looked into his face with her 
sweet eyes but did not smile. It seemed to Lancaster that 
Digby ’s mantle of unworldliness had fallen, for the time being, 
on his widow and her child. In his heart he liked Cecilia all 
the better for wanting ‘to remain in the antechamber from 
where her husband had gone into the arms of that grim king 
called Death. 

Lancaster had the wholesome dread of death which all 


250 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


healthy human beings ought to feel; but he knew that Digby 
was the sort of man to meet it without blanching. 

Cecilia had gone with her husband to the edge of that other 
world. It seemed quite natural to Lancaster that she should 
not be greatly interested yet in the price of the lease or the 
sale of the furniture. 

He stood knitting his brows as these thoughts came to him. 
Phillips, who was sitting at his desk in the window, looked 
up in an irritated manner. 

“ You seem quite moonstruck, Lancaster !” he said. “ Have 
you any suggestions to make?” 

“I don’t know that I have. Cecilia won’t be here until to- 
morrow, if we swear at her or not. Suppose we go back to 
Forty-eight, and have another good hunt for the lease?” 

“No use. It is safe to be in the secretary.” 

“I am not so sure. I have an idea that Digby kept only 
his medical notes and papers in that secretary. We didn’t 
half look through that old bureau at one side of the fire- 
place.” 

“Well,” said Phillips in a resigned voice, “I’ll come with 
you — not that there’s the least use, I’m convinced.” 

The two men went into the next house. It was all dusted, 
and bright, and fresh. Cecilia’s good staff of servants saw 
to all that. There were fresh flowers in the stands in the 
windows. The nice, bright curtains were newly draped, the 
whole house looked in apple pie order. 

Lancaster sighed when he found himself in the hall. The 
very freshness and order of the house gave him pain. He 
was accustomed to this house — he came to it often, and the 
stillness, combined with the wonderful order, gave him a 
queer sensation. The house seemed to Lancaster something 
like a grave, all garnished and beautiful, and yet full of dead 
men’s bones — the bones of buried hopes, buried loves. 

Instinctively he hushed his voice, and stepped lightly as he 
walked across the hall. Rough in his exterior, Lancaster 
possessed a tender heart. Phillips, on the contrary, the es- 
sence of refinement in manners and appearance, was quite in- 
capable of being moved by the orderliness, yet silence, of the 
house which had ceased to be a home. Phillips called to the 
servants in an aggressive tone. It never occurred to him to 
feel a particle of sentiment. He was sorry, of course, for more 
reasons than one, that Digby’s valuable life had been cut short, 
but he was not a man seriously to mourn about anything that 


IN RIGBY'S CONSULTING ROOM. 


251 


did not directly affect himself. All the same, he meant to be 
thoroughly kind to the widow and the orphan. 

The two men entered Digby’s consulting room, and began 
a fresh search for the missing lease. The old oak bureau at 
one side of the fireplace was opened, drawer after drawer 
taken out, and the contents examined. The drawers of the 
bureau were mostly filled with anatomical specimens, but the 
bottom drawer contained papers. 

A new interest came into Phillips’s manner when he saw 
the papers. He began to search them thoroughly. 

“It is no use your wasting your time over those,” said 
George. “ The lease will probably be on parchment, and you 
can see what it is at a glance. It isn’t there in that heap; 
those are all notes of poor Digby’s.” 

Phillips threw the notes back into the drawer. 

“I said we should find nothing of value in this rubbish,” he 
exclaimed. “ Come away, Lancaster. I can’t waste any more 
time. If Mrs. Digby is so scrupulous as not to trust us with 
the keys of the only place where the lease is likely to be, she 
must let the chance go by of doing a good bid with Crichton. 
After all, it isn’t my affair. I am only helping her out of a 
spirit of friendliness. If she doesn’t choose to meet me in the 
same spirit, I wash my hands of her.” 

“For goodness’ sake, don’t get into a rage with poor 
Cecilia,” exclaimed Lancaster. “ It is impossible for a woman 
when she is stunned to take an absorbing interest in leases 
and furniture. They are like so many dead bones, you know. 
Mere dust and ashes — all the flavor gone out of them. 
Cecilia is obliged to you — of course, anyone ought to be 
obliged to you, for you are taking a heap of trouble — but she 
can’t realize things at present; she has got an awful shock.” 

“Mrs. Digby is like all women,” answered Phillips, “full of 
whims, and unreasonable. Well, I must go and see some pa- 
tients. Good-by, Lancaster.” 

Lancaster stayed behind a few moments to reduce the room 
to the absolute order in which they had found it. He locked 
the oak bureau, and put the key into his pocket. He took 
out his pocket handkerchief to flick away some specks of 
dust on Digby’s writing table, then he .seated himself in 
Digby’s chair, and tried to fancy himself a doctor w'ho, to 
some extent, held the lives of human beings in his hands. 
Nobody gave Lancaster credit for imagination, but he really 
had a great deal of it. He was profoundly ashamed of this 


252 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


gift, and took the greatest possible pains to hide it from the 
eyes of his fellow men. To Lancaster his somewhat vivid 
power of picturing things, of seeing the ideal under the real, 
was by no means a gift of the gods to be prized and made 
much of. He looked upon it as a weakness, and blushed for 
himself when he could not help seeing a ghostly Digby walk- 
ing about this room, and a ghostly Cecilia, with love shining 
out of her eyes, coming up to him and looking into his face 
with adoration and undying affection. Ghostly patients came 
in at the door, sat down on the chair where so many patients 
had sat, received their verdicts, and went away. Lancaster 
saw the whole scene — the vanished scene which Digby could 
never enact again. He got up, with a shudder, at last, 
muttering to himself: 

“ I am the greatest ass in Christendom ! It is well that 
Phillips cannot see the thoughts that course through my 
muddled head. The best thing that I can do now is to run 
round and see another agent. By Jove, though! the agents 
will have shut up shop now. Well, well, Cecilia shan’t lose 
a good sum for the lease because she happens not to care about 
money to-day.” 

Phillips went to see his patients. They talked of Digby, 
for his name was not quite forgotten, and Phillips answered 
them in tones of profoundest sympathy. They said, after he 
had gone, what a tender-hearted man Dr. Phillips was — how 
charming in every way. What a good thing it was that 
he was spared to his wife and the world at large. On the 
whole, he was a more agreeable man than Laurence Digby, 
and, if one of those valuable physicians had to go, it was 
just as well that Phillips was the one spared. 

Phillips went home to his wife. They had dinner in their 
usual orderly fashion. The pompous and slow meal came to 
an end, and Helen went up to her drawing room. Phillips 
called to her as she was leaving the room. 

“Don’t wait up for me, Helen,” he said. “I have a good 
deal to do to-night. I may even be going out for a little.” 

She made no response. It was not her custom to question 
her husband’s doings. She went meekly out of the room, and 
crept upstairs with a dull look on her face. Helen found life 
dull, but it did not occur to her to think of herself as a martyr. 
James was a very clever, good sort of man, and she was 
lucky to have him for a husband. She did not even pretend to 
understand him, but that did not matter, for wives seldom 


IN DIGBY'S CONSULTING ROOM. 


253 


understood really clever husbands. As to Cecilia! But 
Cecilia was an exceptional woman. It was absurd to be un- 
happy because one had not genius. James said that Cecilia 
had genius. Helen was glad for her friend, but she was not 
jealous of her. 

She sat down to her interminable embroidery, and wiped 
the tears now and then from her eyes as she thought of Digby, 
to whom she had been warmly attached. Presently she heard 
the hall door shut, and, stepping on to the balcony, she saw 
Phillips run down their steps and go into No. 48. What did 
he want in the Digbys’ house at that hour? 

“ I suppose he is having a fresh search for the lease,” thought 
Helen. She went back to her embroidery. Presently she 
rang the bell, and asked the servant to bring lights. The 
embroidery fell from her hands. She took up the third 
volume of a novel. It was not interesting; it fell to her lap. 
Her head was bent slightly forward ; she was asleep. 

Phillips went into No. 48, and was met in the hall by the 
servant. 

“It’s all right, Jacobs,” he said; “I shall be occupied for 
an hour or two in your poor master’s consulting room.” 

“Shall I bring lights, sir?” asked the man. 

“If you please.” 

“Will you have any refreshments, sir? Wine or cigars, 
or anything of that sort ?” 

“No, thanks. Just see that I’m not disturbed, that’s all.” 

Phillips went into the consulting room. There were no 
ghosts there for him. Jacobs followed in a few moments with 
a shaded lamp. He lit some candles on the mantelpiece, 
looked solemnly round, opened his lips as if to say something, 
shut them again with a world of meaning, and stepped noise- 
lessly to the door, and closed it behind him. 

“Now, you old spy, have you done?” said Phillips. He 
walked to the door, and deliberately locked it. 

He was in evening dress — he invariably put on evening 
dress for dinner — and he looked what he really was, a strik- 
ingly handsome and distinguished figure. Vain men — and 
Phillips was essentially vain — are fond of looking at them- 
selves whenever they can find an opportunity. After locking 
the door of the consulting room, Phillips walked up to the 
mantelpiece to glance at himself in the glass which he ex- 
pected to find standing over it. He did this almost uncon- 
sciously. He had weighty work on hand — work on the sue- 


254 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


cess of which depended all his future. But still, to gaze at 
his own handsome image was a gratification which he had no 
intention of denying to himself even at this critical juncture. 
He raised his eyes to be met by a blank. 

It never occurred to Laurence Digby to have looking-glasses, 
as he termed them, in his consulting room. 

Phillips laughed. 

“Just like the man,” he muttered; “the most unworldly 
soul in existence. When Crichton has this house, things will 
be differently arranged. Now then, now then. To find that 
lease. Mrs. Digby must not cut her own throat by her absurd 
scruples. Let me see. If I can lay my hands on that lease I 
can take it to Crichton early to-morrow morning. It will 
then be in time for his solicitor, and the whole matter may 
be satisfactorily arranged.” 

Phillips spoke half aloud. He was wandering restlessly 
about the room. 

“I had better begin with the bureau,” he said. “I didn’t 
half look through those papers.” 

He drew a chair forward, and tugged at the lower drawer 
of the oak bureau. He was met by opposition. Lancaster 
had taken away the key. It now reposed in his pocket. 

“ Confound the fellow !” exclaimed Phillips, the color rising 
to his face. He put his hand into his own pocket, took out 
a bunch of keys, and deliberately tried key after key in the 
lock. There was nothing uncommon about the lock, and he 
soon found a key of his own to open it. He pulled the drawer 
wide open, knelt down on the floor, and began systematically 
to arrange the papers which were scattered about in it. 

Lancaster had said that the lease would be written on 
parchment, and would be easily distinguished. Phillips did 
not seem to remember this observation. He looked for that 
lease on small fragments of paper, he tried to discover it 
among scattered notes, he read clews to it in this memoran- 
dum and in that. Suddenly he pushed the drawer into its 
place, got up, and stood in the center of the room. 

“Now, shall I do it?” he said to himself. “Shall I rob my 
dear friend and his widow? It’s a dirty thing to do. I have 
never been too good, but neither have I stooped to this depth 
before. My dead friend? faugh! He was never my friend. 
It was not in his nature to hate actively, but if he could hate, 
he hated me. I was good to him; no man was ever better 
to another. To my dying day I cannot forget how I helped 


IN DIGBY'S CONSULTING ROOM. 


255 


Digby. He has died without debts, with a wide reputation 
for goodness and cleverness. He has died suddenly, disas- 
trously, but his life was a success, not a failure. If I had not 
stepped in, Digby ’s life would have been a failure. I made 
the man, and the man hated me. His wife hates me, too. 
Bless that woman! Can she ever conceal an emotion? It 
speaks in her eyes if it doesn’t tremble on her lips. Cecilia 
Digby hates me. I have been very frank with Mrs. Digby. 
I have plainly told her why I helped Digby. He has gone 
from this earth, and his secret — his secret dies with him un- 
less I rescue it! For the good of humanity I ought to do 
this thing. A valuable discovery lies buried. It is my 
bounden duty to take it out of its grave. As likely as not, 
Mrs. Digby will burn all the papers. To-night alone is left 
to me to save them. If I take them away she will never miss 
them. What can a woman know of science? I may or may 
not be able to use Digby ’s discovery; that all remains to be 
proved. But it is my duty to rescue it. Good heavens! 
Suppose a valuable thing of that sort went into the flames? 
Now then, what am I lingering for? The lease in the secre- 
tary : it is absolutely necessary to find the lease and the will, 
and if I come across anything else — anything of a thousand 
times more value than any lease or any will — I can rescue it; 
then I am a benefactor to mankind.” 

When Phillips came to this juncture in his meditation he 
burst into a loud laugh. Jacobs, who was moving about in 
an uneasy fashion in the hall, heard the laugh, and hurried 
down to the kitchen. 

“ What is the doctor doing in master’s study?” he said. “ I 
wish missis would come back. I don’t see what call Dr. 
Phillips has in master’s study.” 

“ Why don’t you go and tell him you want to lock up for 
the night, Jacobs?” asked Sally Jenkins. 

“ ’Cos I knows my place,” answered Jacobs loftily. He 
walked out of the kitchen. Sally Jenkins had a way of ruf- 
fling him up. He went back to the hall and moved a chair or 
two on purpose. 

Phillips did not hear the chairs being moved. His laughter 
had been followed by one honest exclamation. 

“I must get this discovery of Digby ’s into my own hands,” 
he muttered, “and I mean to make myself famous with it. 
Farewell to sophistry: why should I try to deceive myself? 
I mean to be a blackguard for the sake of fame. ” 


256 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Having said this he felt more comfortable. As a rule, he 
was not even honest to himself, and this one -honest speech 
gave him a sense of gratification. He took his bunch of keys 
once more out of his pocket, and, with great care, tried them 
one by one in the lock of the secretary. After a moment or 
two of sorting keys and examining of locks, he gave an 
exclamation of pleasure. One key turned in the lock quietly 
and smoothly, and Phillips pulled the long drawer open. 


JBool? IV.— 1 temptation. 


CHAPTER i. 

THE LEFT-HAND DRAWER. 

When Phillips looked at the open drawer he gave an ex- 
clamation of pleasure. Digby, careless with regard to dress 
and personal appearance, was neat almost to a fault about his 
papers. 

The drawer in question contained bundles of papers, strapped 
together with elastic bands and labeled. Phillips ran his 
eyes eagerly over the labels. He did not find what he wanted, 
but he had come upon an unexpected treasure. Digby had 
made notes of several of his most important cases. He had 
fastened these notes together in due rotation, and written on 
the label which was attached to each parcel the name of the 
disease which he had conquered. All particulars with regard 
to the cases were contained in these precious little packets. 

* Phillips felt his heart beating with pleasure. If he could 
possibly purloin these notes, he might step into Digby’s shoes 
in every sense. He might take up consumption as his spe- 
cialty, and work the cures that Digby could no longer perform. 

“ Patience,” he said. “This search grows more exciting 
each moment. Shall I pay Mrs. Digby a price for the con- 
tents of this secretary, or shall I simply put the most interest- 
ing of the notes into my pocket? I think I shall do the 
latter. There is no saying what crochet Digby’s widow may 
have got at the badk of her head. Her suspicions may be 
aroused. She may refuse to give me the notes. If Helen 
had been Digby’s wife there would have been no difficulty. 
Little Helen is above or below suspicion. It is a very good 
thing to have a wife with only an average intelligence. 
Cecilia Digby’s intelligence is above the average. She can 
see through a man, can fathom his thoughts, can interpret his 
motives. She knows too much already. If she was unwilling 
to let me use Digby’s discovery while he was alive, she will 

257 


258 


THE MEDICINE LADT. 


be ten times less willing to intrust it to me now that he is 
dead. There is nothing for me but to play the blackguard. 
Now, let me see. This is a long job. I cannot run away 
with all Digby’s notes, and yet I must look through them in 
order to discover the magnum bonum — the great discovery, 
w T hich, in my hands, will benefit mankind. What a fool 
Digby was to withhold such a blessing from the race ! Doubt- 
less Providence meant him to die early in order to put the 
thing in my way. Faugh! Why should I speak of Provi- 
dence — something directs our affairs, that is evident, but 
I fear I am forced to leave the Source of Good out of this 
business.” 

Phillips brought the candles from the mantelpiece and set 
them on the secretary. He resolved, if necessary, to sit up 
until morning. He must complete his task; he felt that it 
would be madness to allow his present opportunity to slip. 

He had only opened one drawer as yet — there were many 
drawers in the secretary. It would take him hours to glean 
the cream from this mass of valuable evidence. He stood 
for a moment hesitating. The lease was forgotten, Digby’s 
will was as if it had never been made. He said to himself: 

“The first thing I must do is to send that old fool, Jacobs, 
to his bed. It would never do for him to potter about. I 
will go and speak to him.” 

He closed the drawer of the secretary, left the key in the lock, 
and, going across the room, opened the door and went into the 
entrance hall. 

Jacobs was sitting in a mournful attitude on one of the hall 
chairs. He jumped up with alacrity when he saw Phillips; 
his face instantly assumed a cheerful and relieved expression. 

“Are you going, sir?” he asked. “It is about time we was 
locking up.” 

Jacobs approached the hall door as he spoke. 

“Lock up, by all means, my good fellow,” said Phillips. 
“ Go to bed. Get the other servants to go to bed. I shall 
not be leaving just yet. I have a great deal to do with re- 
gard to your poor master’s papers, and I may not leave here 
until two or three in the morning. Lock up and go to bed.” 

“No, sir,” said Jacobs, his face blanching. “The other 
servants may go to bed, but I shall sit up as long as it is your 
pleasure to remain, Dr. Phillips. I have the house in charge 
for my missis, and I prefers sitting up.” 

“Do as you please, of course,” said Phillips, his face flushed 


THE LEFT-HAND DRAWER 


259 


with annoyance. Jacobs saw the look, and disliked and sus- 
pected him more than ever. 

Phillips was about to return to the consulting room when 
a noise in the street caused Jacobs to assume a listening atti- 
tude. 

“Goodness gracious me!” he exclaimed. “If there aint 
a cab a-stopping at the door!” 

He rushed across the hall, pushed back the bolt of the heavy 
hall door, and flung it open. 

A childish voice was heard. A woman’s tones replied. 
The next instant Cecilia and little Nance walked into the 
house. 

Phillips felt himself turning pale to the lips. 

Cecilia had seen him. She said a few words to Jacobs, 
who, forgetting all the proprieties, stooped down, picked 
little Nance up in his arms, and kissed her. Nance uttered 
a low cry, and put her arms very tightly round the old man’s 
neck. 

Cecilia went straight up to Phillips. He began to say 
something polite and sympathetic. She waved her hand to 
stop his words. 

“Something told me you would be here,” she said. “That 
is why I came.” 

“I am very glad you have come,” he answered. “Your 

presence is much wanted. We require ” He paused. 

Cecilia raised her hand as if to interrupt him. 

“I know what you are going to say,” she said. “Have 
you been in my husband’s consulting room? I see there are 
lights there. Shall we go there now together?” 

“Yes, if you will.” Phillips wondered, as he spoke, by 
what maneuver he could get into the consulting room first, in 
order to remove the key from the secretary. 

“Yes, if you will,” he repeated, backing toward the open 
door. “But you are tired, and there is no hurry.” 

“No hurry?” asked Cecilia in scorn. “To judge from 
your face at this moment, from your telegram, from 
George Lancaster’s remarks, there must be all possible hurry. 
Nothing but the most undue haste could account for your 
being here looking into my husband’s papers at this hour of 
the night.” 

“Of course,” said Phillips, “if you will misinterpret my 
action ” 

“Excuse me, I never misinterpret your actions. I always 


260 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


know exactly why you are kind. If there is really no hurry, 
we will postpone our examination of the papers until to- 
morrow. If there is the extreme hurry you have given me 
to understand, we will go into the matter at once.” 

“Now that you are here, there is no special hurry,” replied 
Phillips. “ I want the lease because I think I have got you a 
good tenant, but to-morrow morning will do.” 

“Thanks,” said Cecilia. “I will say good-night now.” 

She held out her hand. Phillips felt forced to accept her 
dictum. 

“One moment,” he said. “I left my hat in the consulting 
room.” 

He had not left it there, but any excuse was sufficient. 
He rushed into the room, took the key out of the secretary, 
slipped it into his pocket, and came back. He felt a sense of 
relief now, although he had left that drawer in Digby’s secre- 
tary in hopeless confusion, although he knew that, unless 
some lucky occasion arose, he had lost the chance of securing 
the papers he so valued. He made one or two civil remarks 
to Mrs. Pigby, tried to throw fresh sympathy into his 
manner, kissed Nance and inquired for her health, and, re- 
marking that he would send Helen over the first thing in the 
morning, went away. 

Jacobs shut the hall door after him with marked satis- 
faction, drew the bolts, put on the chains, and then turned to 
Mrs. Digby. 

“It was the good Providence as sent you home, ma’am,” he 
said. 

“Yes, yes, Jacobs,” replied Cecilia. “Now, will you tell 
Henny-Penny to come down for Nance. Tell Henny-Penny 
to put her to sleep in my room.” 

“Aren’t you going to bed yourself, ma’am?” 

“Not at present. I am not at all sleepy. Jacobs, do you 
mind sitting up for an hour or two?” 

“I’d meant to sit up if you hadn’t come home, ma’am. 
Dr. Phillips, he ses to me, ses he, ‘I will be in your poor 
master’s consulting room two or three hours,’ ses he, ‘but 
you may go to bed, Jacobs,’ he ses, ‘and so may the other ser- 
vants.’ ‘No,’ I ses, ‘the other servants may go to bed, but 
I sits up,’ I ses. Dr. Phillips, he gets red all over, and then 
you came up, ma’am, in the cab, and I were never better 
pleased in the whole of my born days.” 

Cecilia took off her bonnet, and stood in her long, plain 


THE LEFT-HAND DRAWER. 


261 


black dress in the hall. Her brows were knit in perplexity, 
her face was very white. 

“Jacobs,” she said, “I believe you are faithful to your 
master. Will you be just as faithful to me as long as I can 
retain you in my service?” 

“I will, ma’am. You needn’t ask me twice. I’d have 
done anything under the sun for Dr. Digby, and I’d do as 
much for you and Miss Nance, ma’am.” 

“Give me your hand, Jacobs.” 

The old servant stretched out his horny fingers, and Cecilia 
grasped them in her slim, white, delicate ones. 

“It’s a bargain,” she said. “You are faithful to me. 
Now, I want you to obey a distinct order.” 

Jacobs drew himself up. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. 

“You are not, under any pretext, to allow Dr. Phillips 
to enter my husband’s consulting room.” 

“I will have much pleasure in obeying your order, ma’am,” 
said Jacobs, with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. 

“That is all,” said Cecilia. “You must be polite, of 
course, but you must be equally firm. You have my distinct 
orders, and they are sufficient. ” 

“Is Mr. Lancaster to come into the consulting room, 
ma’am?” 

“Yes, if he pleases — that is, if he wishes particularly to see 
me. Dr. Phillips is not to enter the room on any pretext 
whatever. If he wants me, show him into the dining room. 
That is all, Jacobs. Keep your own counsel. You are to be 
very firm.” 

“I quite understand, ma’am, and you may rely on me.” 

“That is all, for the present, Jacobs. If Sally Jenkins has 
not gone to bed, tell her to send me up a cup of tea to the 
consulting room. She may go to bed afterward. I cannot 
see her or any of the other servants to-night. I should like 
you to sit up.” 

Jacobs ran downstairs to execute Mrs. Digby’s orders. 
Nance was carried off to bed, clasped in a rapturous embrace, 
by Henny-Penny. 

Cecilia, leaving her bonnet, with its long crape veil on the 
hall table, went into the consulting room, and closed the door 
behind her. 

“ I knew it ! I have only just been in time,” she exclaimed. 
“Have I been in time? Did he dare to tamper with the secre- 


262 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


tary? When he saw me come in, the mask dropped from his 
face for a moment, and I caught a glimpse of his base, ignoble 
soul. No wonder I could not rest at Hampton Wick! No 
wonder I felt the queerest, strangest fears drawing me home ! 
Home? Do I call this place home? No, it is an empty shell 
with the heart taken out. I am not going to give way,” she 
continued. “I have held up all this time, and I am not going 
to give way now. I have my work before me. I see that 
there will be a stand-up fight between James Phillips and me. 
He very nearly won during my absence this evening, but his 
chance is over. He shall never, as long as I live, have the 
opportunity to spy and pry into my husband’s private papers 
again. First of all, to find the lease and the will. They 
are the ostensible reasons for this wholesale robbery. The ex- 
cuses shall be removed before I go to bed to-night.” 

Jacobs knocked at the door. He had brought up the tea, 
hot and fragrant. Cecilia went and took «the tray from the 
old servant’s hands. 

“Jacobs,” she said, “I want you to go up to the box room. 
Find a good-sized trunk, with strong hinges and lock in per- 
fect order. Empty it, if anything happens to be inside, dust 
and clean it, and bring it down to me here. Henny-Penny is 
still up, and she will help you to bring it downstairs. Leave 
it in the passage outside this door. I will ring the bell when 
I want it.” 

Jacobs withdrew, well pleased. 

“The missis is the right sort,” he murmured under his 
breath. “Drat that Phillips! He has met his match in the 
missis. Coming a-spying and a-rooting in the poor master’s 
room when he is scarce cold in his grave, 1 call it downright 
indecent! But your little game is over, Dr. Phillips, or my 
name isn’t Samuel Jacobs. It’s a good thing the missis has 
got a will of her own. There’s no mistake on that point, and 
so I ses to Sally Jenkins when she riles me. The missis is a 
right good sort, I ses, but she ain’t no angel, for she’s just a 
woman as full of fads as an egg is full of meat; she’s a right 
good sort, only I don’t, and never will, place her level with 
the poor doctor. He was an angel, and the missis, she’s 
mortal, and there’s a sight of difference between the two — 
not but what I’d hold by the missis, and serve her faithful, 
and for no wage either, for the poor master’s sake.” 

Holding a lamp in his hand, Jacobs went up to the top of 
the big house. 


THE LEFT-HAND DRAWER . 


263 


Cecilia locked the door of the consulting room, took a bunch 
of keys out of her pocket, and, sitting down in front of the 
secretary, proceeded to open the drawers. She pulled open 
the long drawer in the middle first. When she did so she 
uttered an exclamation, and some very angry fire flashed into 
her eyes. 

“Meddled with!” she muttered. “Laurence never kept his 
papers in this state ! These papers have been opened and tam- 
pered with. That wretch must have tried to pick the lock! 
No, the lock is uninjured. He must have found a key to 
open it. Oh, that accounts for his being so anxious to get 
back to this room for his hat, which happened to be in the 
hall all the time ! He wanted to remove the key. Oh, good 
Heavens! Has he touched the drawer — the small drawer on 
the left-hand side? Have the papers been touched?” 

Cecilia’s hand shook. She once more took the key out of 
the lock and fitted it into the small drawer, then, deadly 
white to the lips, pulled it open. 

At another time the sight of the neatly arranged drawer 
would have raised a passion of grief and regret. Now she 
uttered a cry' of delight, raised the untouched packet from 
the drawer, and pressed it to her lips. 

“I thought my dream had come true,” she exclaimed — 
“that awful dream that I had on that awful night! Oh, it 
was sent as a warning. But I have been in time. Thank 
you, good God, kind God, for letting me be in time.” 

Cecilia kissed the papers again and again. 

“They are safe!” she exclaimed. “They shall never get 
into those bad, wicked hands. Now, shall I light a fire and 
burn them? Laurence said, ‘Cecilia, burn the papers — the 
experiment is dangerous.’ Shall I light a fire and do what he 
asked? I could do it, and they would be safe forever. 
Shall I? I think my husband would be pleased. Hoes he stand 
by the gates and look down into the world, and does he see? 
Darling! Can you see? No, no, it’s a child’s fancy — the 
pretty fancy of a sweet child, absolutely impossible, abso- 
lutely untrue. Laurence has gone behind a thick veil; he has 
gone into the unknown, into the mysterious; he has passed 
from my sight, and I am alone. He asked me to burn the 
papers. I saw something in his eyes when lie said, ‘Burn 
the papers, Cecilia.’ His dying eyes looked at me with 
great earnestness, with profound appeal. ‘Burn the papers, 
Cecilia,’ he said. ‘The discovery is dangerous, incomplete, 


264 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


useless.’ I should have said ‘Yes,’ had he stopped there, 
but he didn’t stop there. Something in my face — it must 
have been that — impelled him to go on. He said something 
else. He gave me an alternative. ‘Burn the papers,’ Lau- 
rence said, ‘or, put them into a packet and seal them up, and 
take them from me to Dr. Dickinson. Tell him the story I 
once told you, and ask him to take charge of my useless and 
I incomplete discovery.’ Laurence gave me my choice: now, 

* which shall I do?” 

“The trunk is outside the door, ma’am, whenever you 
want it,” called Jacobs’s voice from the hall. 

“Thank you, Jacobs, presently. I will ring when I want 
you to bring it in,” answered Cecilia. 

She started up from her husband’s chair, and began to walk 
up and down the room. 

“Now, which shall I do?” she exclaimed again. “Shall I 
burn the papers, or shall I take them to Dr. Dickinson? I 
know which, in his heart, Laurence would have liked. He 
had the queerest feeling always about this discovery. He 
was a brave man — the bravest I ever met — and yet he was 
afraid of this thing which he himself had found out. He 
would like me to burn the papers. Dear Laurence! Cecilia 
will do what you like. It is an awful sacrifice, for I believe 
in the cure, but I must please you, Laurence. I could read 
his face so well, I could see by the expression in his eyes 
what he really wished me to do. I will light a fire. That is 
the first step. Where are the matches? Laurence generally 
kept them in this little box on the mantelpiece. No matches 
here; is the fire laid in the grate? He liked to have a fire 
always ready. He wished to have it kept laid, so that he 
might put a match to it at any minute. No fire — nothing in 
the grate ! How careless of the servants !” 

Cecilia felt foiled. The resolution to which she had almost 
come, with the memory of her husband’s dying words ringing 
in her ears, grew dim. She began to falter, the desire to do 
the first right thing that presented itself became faint within 
her. She turned from the empty grate, from the stand which 
contained no match box, and said to herself : 

“Providence, or Destiny, or w T hat you will, has interposed. 
I can’t burn Laurence’s papers to-night. Perhaps, after all, 
they are meant to bless the world; perhaps my husband’s dy- 
ing instinct was a wrong instinct. Oh, I am glad there was 
no fire in the grate, no means of lighting one. I am glad, 


THE LEFT-HAND DRAWER. 


2G5 


I rejoice. It would have been wicked to quench this light, 
this possible light, this possible blessing, even to humor the 
wishes of the dead. Even for your sake, Laurence, I stop 
at this. You were too humble; you did not know your own 
greatness; you did not know that genius was poured into your 
veins ; you did not know the strength of that brain of yours ; 
you had one fault, and only one — you mistrusted yourself. I 
will not destroy the papers; I will not commit your discovery 
to the flames. I have been prevented; I am glad. Doctor 
Dickinson is great and clever. He is also generous and 
honorable. He will make use of your discovery, Laurence, 
and acknowledge you as its author. I will seal up the packet, 
and take it to him to-morrow, or next day.” 

Cecilia went to the door and opened it. 

“Are you there, Jacobs?” she called out. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“You can bring that trunk into the room now. Thank 
you. Put it here, please. Jacobs, how long was Dr. Phillips 
in the consulting room before I came?” 

“Exactly forty-seven minutes, ma’am; I watched him by 
the clock.” 

“Jacobs, I did not mean to come home to-night.” 

“It’s a good thing as you changed your mind, Mrs. Digby.” 

“I think it is a good thing. Thank you, Jacobs; the trunk 
will do nicely there. I am going to put some of your 
master’s papers into it, and to-morrow Miss Nance and I will 
take it away. You can leave me now, but don’t go to bed.” 

“No, ma’am, I’ll sit in the hall; if you touch the poor 
master’s gong, I can be with you in half a minute, ma’am.” 

Jacobs went out of the room, and Cecilia began her task. 
She went quickly through the work she had imposed upon 
herself. She was no longer troubled by indecision. She 
knew exactly howto act. The open trunk was drawn up near 
the large secretary, and one by one she emptied the contents 
of the drawers into the trunk. All the neatly docketed papers 
were placed in it, and several large books, full of Digby’s 
memoranda with regard to his consulting patients, were 
placed at the bottom. 

It was two or three hours before the large secretary was 
emptied, but at last it stood with all its drawers unlocked 
and partly open. The drawers contained no value for any- 
one now. The secretary was reduced to a mere piece of furni- 
ture ; it ceased to be the casket of a priceless treasure. 


266 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Neither the lease nor the will was found in the secretary. 
Digby had always kept his medical memoranda and his private 
papers apart. Cecilia had assured both Phillips and Lancas- 
ter on this point, but they had not believed her. 

After completing her task, locking the trunk, and putting 
the key into her purse, she spent a little time looking for the 
missing will and for the lease of the house. She found them 
at last in an old-fashioned desk which had belonged to 
Digby’s mother, but which no one had thought of examining. 
She put them on a table without troubling to open them. 

Now she had a last task to perform. She must seal up the 
parcel which was to be intrusted to the care of Dr. Dickin- 
son. 

She sat on her husband’s chair for that purpose, took up 
a couple of sheets of foolscap paper, folded the packet care- 
fully in them, and, slipping Digby’s signet ring from her 
own first finger, sealed the packet. 

The final thing was to direct it. She wrote Dr. Dickinson’s 
name in full on the glazed foolscap paper, dried it on the blot- 
ting paper, and, being very tired by this time, laid her head 
suddenly on the little packet, and dropped into a troubled 
sleep. 

Her sleep lasted but a moment or two ; she awoke with a 
start, clasping the packet frantically to her heart. 

“No, I won’t give it up,” she exclaimed. “Dr. Phillips 
wants to steal it from me. He is dangerous and unscrupulous. 
Laurence said so. He wants my husband’s discovery. He 
shan’t have it. Why am I frightened? I just had a dream, 
and the hour is very late, and I am stiff with weariness and 
sorrow. I am very tired; I will call Jacobs.” 

Cecilia went to the door and opened it. The old man was 
sound asleep on a chair in the hall. She went and touched 
him. 

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Digby. I didn’t know I had 
dropped asleep.” 

“It was quite natural for you to sleep, Jacobs. I am sorry 
I kept you up so long. There is one more thing I want you to 
do. I want that trunk which has just been locked to be well 
strapped. Fetch a strong leather strap, and bring it to me 
to the consulting room.” 

“Yes, ma’am, there are several in the box room.” 

Jacobs was absent a very few minutes. Mrs. Digby stood 
near as he firmly strapped the heavy trunk. 


MBS. DIGBY ACTS WITH PROMPTITUDE. 


267 


“Now,” she said, “I am going to seal the strap. The strap 
of this trunk cannot be unfastened without breaking the 
seal.” 

“No more it can, ma’am. That’s a downright good 
thought,” said Jacobs. 

CHAPTER II. 

MBS. DIGBY ACTS WITH PROMPTITUDE. 

Early next morning, before anyone was stirring at No. 47, 
Cecilia got up and dressed herself. She did not wake little 
Nance, who was still lying asleep in her mother’s bed. 
Henny-Penny came to the door, and Mrs. Digby gave her a 
few directions with regard to the child. 

“Give her some breakfast as soon as she wakes,” she said, 
“but do not disturb her: let her sleep on as long as she may. 
I shall be back probably by eleven or twelve o’clock.” 

Jacobs called a cab for his mistress, and the heavy trunk was 
hoisted to the roof. Cecilia stepped into the cab, and told 
the driver to take her to King’s Cross. 

Soon after nine that morning Miss Timmins, in her little 
cottage, was startled, and very nearly thrown off her equilib* 
rium by the sight of Cecilia in her widow’s dress, standing 
at the gate. 

Miss Timmins had not seen her friend since Digby’s death, 
and when she saw Cecilia now she felt a nervous inclination 
to run away. 

Miss Timmins had the kindest heart in the world, but one 
of her peculiarities was a certain shrinking from the sight of 
intense grief. 

Cecilia seemed able to read her old friend’s thought in her 
face. 

“Nevermind, Aunt Abigail,” she called out, for she had 
adopted little Nance’s name for the old lady. “You need 
not fear seeing me. Do you notice that cab? There is an 
enormous trunk on the roof. Will you take it in?” 

“To be sure, my dear,” answered Miss Timmins; “the only 
difficulty is, will it get through the hall door?” 

“Your back door is wider than your front,” said Cecilia. 
“We will take it round that way — I have thought it all out. 
The trunk can be got into the house; the only question is, 
when once it is inside, where is it to stand?” 

“In the kitchen,” said Miss Timmins. “I have no doubt, 


268 


TEE MEDICINE LADY. 


Cecilia, by your bringing me that trunk at so early a date, 
that it contains something valuable. The kitchen is much 
the safest place to keep it in. Now then, cabman, you must 
call assistance ; you cannot possibly carry in that enormous 
trunk by yourself.” 

The cabman grinned , and motioned with his thumb to where 
one or two men were lounging about. 

Between them they conveyed the great box round to Miss 
Timmins’s backdoor, and, with jerks and pushes and vigorous 
efforts, it was landed at last in the little kitchen. It must 
be confessed that it much injured the appearance of this tiny 
room, but neither Cecilia nor Miss Timmins cared anything 
for that. 

The cabman and his assistants were paid and dismissed, 
and Cecilia sat down by the old lady and looked into her face. 

“It is all over,” she said. “I am much as I was before. 
You took me in before when I was very desolate and lonely; 
I want you to take me in again — I want you to give Nance 
and me a home.” 

“My dear child,” said Miss Timmins. The tears slowly 
welled into her old eyes, and her withered hand, which she 
laid on Cecilia’s smooth one, trembled. 

“You need not be afraid that I shall give way r ” said Mrs. 
Digby. “ I feel as if I should never give way again. Per- 
haps I am stunned, or perhaps this calm is the effect of my 
husband’s teaching. It doesn’t seem to me worth while to 
cry; tears do no good. Miss Timmins, that trunk contains 
priceless treasures.” 

“My dear,” said Miss Timmins, with a little start, “you 
must remember that I keep no man about the premises. 
Would it not be safer for you to send your plate and valuables 
to a bank? We always did that in our rich days, dear. When 
we went for our summer holiday, the plate went to the 
bank.” 

“That trunk contains things infinitely more valuable than 
all the plate in the world,” answered Cecilia; “but there is 
only one person who would desire to rob it, and he won’t 
come here. The trunk contains my husband’s medical 
papers and ” 

“You need not go on,” said Miss Timmins, nodding her 
head; “it’s safer to mention no names. I quite understand j 
no fear that he will come here, my love — he knows me / ” 

Cecilia jumped up aud kissed the old lady. 


MRS. DIGBY ACTS WITH PROMPTITUDE. 269 

“It cheers me to talk to you,” she said. “But now, what 
about the future? I must go back to No. 48 Ilartrick Street 
almost immediately, for I want to pack my clothes and to get 
everything ready for removal.” 

“You ask me,” said Miss Timmins, “to give you and 
Nance a home. You know the accommodation of this house.” 

“I do,” said Cecilia; “the house is too small.” 

“Then, my dear ” 

“Stop!” exclaimed Mrs. Digby. “I have a proposal to 
make. I expect you won’t like it, but perhaps for my sake 
and for Nance’s you will consent to it. I want you to move 
with me to a larger house somewhere in the country — some- 
where even farther out of town than Highgate. I want you 
to take Nance and me in just for to-night, and to-morrow we 
will go into a larger house.” 

Miss Timmins turned pale. She looked slowly round her 
little kitchen. She loved the tiny room; it had witnessed 
her dull, unselfish, tranquil existence for many long years. 
She was old, and she shrank from taking a new step. Could 
she cough as comfortably in any bedroom as in that small 
room upstairs with the sloping roof? Could she protect her- 
self so thoroughly from draughts in any other apartment? 
They poured down the chimney in that room, they entered 
also by many cracks in the roof, they entered in hurricanes, 
when the wind was high, through the badly fitted window: 
nevertheless, Miss Timmins, with skill and method, had 
managed to protect herself from them. She would have great 
trouble in making arrangements for her comfort in a new and 
larger bedroom. These thoughts flitted rapidly through her 
brain as Cecilia stood opposite to her. She was silent for a 
few minutes ; then she said in a gentle voice without a trace 
of opposition in it: 

“Very well, Cecilia. You always did exactly what you 
wished with me. Only I do not see how it is possible to move 
from this house to-morrow. We have to find another house 
to go to, and when we have found it, it has to be furnished 
and got ready for us.” 

“We will take a furnished house for the present. I do not 
wish to stay at No. 48 Hartrick Street. I shall take away my 
own things to-day, and then George Lancaster will manage 
the sale of the furniture.” 

“My dear, are you going to sell your beautiful furniture — - 
the furniture that we bought together?” 


270 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“ Yes, Aunt Abigail. Can’t you understand that the salt 
has lost its savor?” 

“My poor child!” 

“Don’t pity me; I can’t bear pity. Aunt Abigail, we will 
shut up this little cottage for the present, and go into a fur- 
nished house in a quiet place where we can be together. 
Henny-Penny shall come wi th us, and Sally Jenkins. Henny- 
Penny must still take care of Nance, and Sally Jenkins can 
do the housework just as she used to do in the dear old Cox- 
moor Street days. Will you look for the house to-day, Aunt 
Abigail?” 

“ To-day, my dear? This is very sudden ; and I don’t know 
what you require.” 

“I require a house with two sitting rooms, one where we 
can have meals, one where I can write and keep my dear 
husband’s papers, and be alone when I wish to be alone. 
The house must also have a kitchen for Sally Jenkins to reign 
over, and a bright nursery for Henny-Penny to be happy in. 
There must also be a bedroom for Nance and me, and another 
for you, and a room in the roof — she likes sleeping in the roof 
best — for Sally Jenkins. That is all. That is a very humble 
sounding house, is it not? A house built on a common pat- 
tern; there must be hundreds of such houses scattered all 
over the country. Put on your bonnet, Aunt Abigail, and 
come down with me to the railway station. I shall take a 
train back to town. Will you, at the same time, take a train 
into the country? When you see houses few and far between, 
and plenty of green fields, and when you smell the fresh air 
of heaven without any contamination of brick, mortar, or 
smoke, then get out of the train, and look for a furnished 
house in that neighborhood.” 

“Dear me, my love, you are as unpractical as ever. What 
sort of a ticket am I to take at the ticket office? Where am I 
to book to? And how can I possibly find all that you require 
— even though your requirements are small — dropped down 
from the skies in a country place? I must go to a small town 
or village and find a house agent.” 

“Yes, Aunt Abigail, you know exactly how to set about 
it. Come, there is no time to be lost.” 

Cecilia’s arrangements were carried into effect. Miss Tim- 
mins spent a tiring day, but at last she found a pretty house, 
standing in a large garden; the house was to be let furnished, 
and the old lady took it on the spot. 


MRS. RIGBY ACTS WITH PROMPTITUDE. 


271 


Cecilia, Nance, the two servants, and Miss Timmins arrived 
there on the following day, and No. 48 Hartrick Street began 
to assume, in Cecilia’s eyes, the cloudy appearance of a dream 
house. 

Mrs. Digby said a few words to her cousin George before 
she went away. 

“ George,” she said emphatically, “I can’t remain here.” 

“Very well, Cecil; I can quite understand your feelings.” 

“ I am going into the country, and dear old Abigail Tim- 
mins is going to keep me company.” 

“ Won’t you find it awfully dull?” 

“ I don’t think so. I like the country best. The country 
air suits Nance. 1 mean to bring her up as much as possible 
out of London.” 

“ Do you know anything about your money affairs. 

“Not a great deal. I am sorry to say that I never saved 
anything out of Laurence’s yearly income. He used to give 
the money to me; I always meant to put by a certain portion 
of it, but it got spent somehow. I am afraid I was extrav- 
agant.” 

“Have you the least idea what your husband’s yearly in- 
come was?” 

“He earned a great deal of money. I can look up my 
books if you like.” 

“No, don’t worry. What’s the good, if it’s all gone? It 
seems a pity that you didn’t save something, but it can’t be 
helped. Digby insured his life, didn’t he?” 

“Yes, for a couple of thousand pounds.” 

“Well, you will have that. And there is the sale of the 
furniture, and what we can get for the lease, and then the 
horses and carriages will bring in something.” 

“Yes; you will manage it all. I know Laurence made you 
my trustee.” 

“I will do the best I can for you, Cecil; you may be sure 
of that.” 

George paused. His next words came with a certain hesi- 
tation. 

“Phillips has been very active on your behalf, Cecilia.” 

“I know it,” she replied. “I am heartily obliged to him; 
still, for every reason, I wish you to have complete authority 
in making arrangements for me.” 

“It must be as you wish. Now, about your furniture. Do 
you wish to retain any?” 


272 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“Yes; my husband’s secretary, his armchair, and all his 
medical books.” 

“The secretary is full of papers, no doubt,” said George. 
“You will like to look at them by and by.” 

“Come into the consulting room with me, George.” 

Cecilia led the way as she spoke. 

“See,” she said, pointing to the secretary, “it is empty. 
I emptied it last night.” 

“You came here, and did all that work last night?” 

“ I did. I sat up until it was done. I cannot give you my 
reason.” 

“ Suppose I guess?” said George, flushing a dull red. “ You 
found Phillips here?” 

“I did. It was between ten and eleven at night when I 
arrived, and he was in the house. He was in this room, busy 
looking ” 

“ Looking for the lease !” interrupted George. “ I never 
saw a man in such a fret as he was in over that lease — he 
simply gave me no peace about it. 1 don’t believe myself 
that Crichton was in such a fearful hurry — I cannot think that 
a few hours really mattered.” 

“It is all right now,” said Cecilia gently. “We will say 
nothing further on the subject. Good-by, George. That 
empty secretary can tempt no one, and I should like to have it 
as soon as it can be moved. Good-by. Give my love to 
Millie, and to Aunt Charlotte. I am going in to see Helen 
Phillips before I leave.” 

Phillips made no remark whatever when Helen told him 
that her cousin had come to say good-by to her, and had de- 
clared her intention of not returning to London at present. 
His face flushed and he bit his lips, but he uttered no words 
of any sort. He called at No. 48 that afternoon, but Jacobs 
had his orders, and Phillips had to return to his own house 
without having obtained that glimpse which he wanted of the 
interior of Digby’s consulting room. 

Cecilia went to the country, and in process of time her 
house was re-let and the lease sold for £700, a good sum also 
being given for the furniture. 

Mr. Crichton, a very rising surgeon, took possession of 
Digby’s old house. His name appeared on a plate on the door, 
and Digby, his wife, and child began to be forgotten by their 
London friends. 


OVGBT CONSUMPTIVE PEOPLE TO MARRY f 273 


CHAPTER III. 

OUGHT CONSUMPTIVE PEOPLE TO MARRY? 

It was a lovely day in October, and Dorothy Sharpe sat 
near an open window in the large drawing room in the house 
in Cadogan Square. 

The Sharpes had just returned from Scotland, and Dorothy 
and her mother had busied themselves during the morning 
giving their lovely house its home look. Favorite books and 
photographs came out of retirement, and Dorothy spent nearly 
two hours arranging cut flowers in every bowl and vase within 
her reach. 

Dorothy Sharpe still retained the extremely slender figure 
of her youth. She was two-and-twenty now, but she did not 
look more than seventeen. Her complexion was beautiful, 
and her face had the soft, peachlike bloom about it which is 
seldom seen after a girl passes twenty. Her rich chestnut 
hair was fastened in a knot on the top of her head. She wore 
a trailing, pale blue dress of a soft texture ; as she bent over 
her flowers she coughed once or twice. 

Lady Sharpe, who was writing notes at her davenport in 
another part of the room, heard the cough, and it disturbed 
her. Sir Probyn wished to give a dinner next week to the 
few friends who had already ventured back to London. It 
was sure to be a prosy affair, and Lady Sharpe sighed as 
her pen flew over the paper. Sir Probyn’s dinners were nec- 
essary. He was a man of high eminence at the bar; but they 
were always long and dreary, and Dorothy invariably looked 
tired when they were over. 

Hack — hack ! The young girl was arranging some roses 
in a splendid, creamy vase — they trembled in her small hands, 
one of them dropped on the floor. She stooped to pick it up, 
coughing again as she did so. 

Lady Sharpe suspended her pen in the air. 

“I won’t notice the cough this time,” she said to herself. 
“It only worries the dear child. I ought not to be nervous. 
Dr. Digby said — ah! what a loss that man is to Dorothy 
and me.” 

Lady Sharpe wrote another note, and Dorothy, having ar- 
ranged her flowers, went and sat by the open window, and, 
taking up “Aurora Leigh,” began to read it. 

Her bright cheeks were flushed with a little extra color; 


274 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


her soft, sweet, hazel eyes had a starry brilliance about them. 
She looked up impatiently now and then, glancing sometimes 
at the door, sometimes at the open window. She had the at- 
titude of a girl who was waiting for something or somebody. 

Hack — hack! That short, dry cough again ! Lady Sharpe 
could sit silent no longer. 

“Dolly, my darling, I wish you would not stay so near the 
open window.” 

“I am hot, and the breeze is delicious, mother,” she an- 
swered. 

“You have caught a little cold, I am afraid.” 

“ No, I have not the slightest trace of cold. Get up, mother, 
and look at this bowl of white roses. I had just enough to 
fill the bowl.” 

Lady Sharpe rose, and Dorothy went with her to the farther 
end of the room. 

“Smell, mother!” she exclaimed. “Dip your nose well in, 
and take a draught of the heavenly perfume.” 

“The roses are perfect, my dear, but my sense of smell is 
not keen. I wish, Dorothy, you would not spend so much 
time over the flowers. You may have caught a chill, dab- 
bling your hands in that cold water.” 

“I assure you, mother, that I have not the smallest chill.” 

“Dearest, you have been coughing.” 

“Just a little hack or two, as if that signified! Now, 
mother, are you going to allow the old terror to seize you 
again?” 

“No, my dearest, no. You are well; I know that. You 
are well, on the whole, but it is only right to be careful, a3 
Dr. Digby used to say ” 

“Ah, mother, don’t speak of him.” 

Tears brimmed into Dorothy’s eyes. She turned from her 
mother, and walked back to the open window. 

The sound of wheels was heard in the square. A private 
hansom drew up at the Sharpes’ house, and a man got out. 

Dorothy stepped on the balcony, peeped quickly and shyly 
over, then re-entered the drawing room with her cheeks in a 
flame and her heart beating. 

“Has anyone come, my dear?” asked Lady Sharpe, who 
had returned to her davenport. 

“Yes, mother. Mr. Crichton is coming upstairs.” 

Lady Sharpe turned and looked at Dorothy. 

“If you wish I’ll go away,” she said. 


OUGHT CONSUMPTIVE PEOPLE TO MARRY? 275 


“No, mother, not to-day, please. It is better not.” 

“My love, how white you have turned.” 

“ I felt tired for a second,” answered Dorothy. “ Don’t go, 
please, mother.” 

“I’ll be guided by circumstances,” replied Lady Sharpe. 

The drawing-room door was flung open by a servant, and 
Mr. Crichton, a good-looking young man of about seven-or 
eight-and- twenty, entered the room. He was of medium 
height, and spare in figure. He had a dark, smooth head of 
closely cropped hair, a slightly olive complexion, and kindly 
eyes. A light leaped now into those eyes when he saw 
Dorothy, and the most casual observer would have noticed at 
a glance that these two were lovers, although no word of love 
had yet passed between them. 

“How do you like your new house?” asked Lady Sharpe. 
“ Do you not feel lost in such an enormous mansion? And 
are you not ” 

“Don’t the ghosts ever come to trouble you?” asked 
Dorothy in a low voice, full of intense feeling. “ My one 
great qjiarrel with you, Mr. Crichton, is this: How could you 
take the Digbys’ house?” 

“It is possible, Miss Sharpe, to treat a dead friend’s house 
in such a way that his ghost shall never feel any sense of in- 
sult. I am settled there now. I like the house; I don’t feel 
it eerie. If Digby’s influence still pervades his consulting 
room, so much the better for me and my patients. Lady 
Sharpe, ‘[won’t you and Miss Dorothy come and lunch with me 
one day next week? I most earnestly desire this,” he added, 
looking full into Dorothy’s face, “for where a morbid feeling 
exists, the sooner it is combated the better.” 

“I can’t go,” answered Miss Sharpe; “you ask an impossi- 
bility.” 

She rose and went back to the balcony, where she stood 
struggling with emotion, which she felt half ashamed of and 
yet could not conquer. 

“It is always the way,” whispered Lady Sharpe.' “Few 
people have fretted for Dr. Digby as our child has done. I do 
not think she has ever been quite the same since his death.” 

“I will leave the house if the idea of going into it pains 
her so dreadfully,” said Crichton. Then, perceiving all 
that his words implied, a wave of dark crimson swept over 
his face. “Lady Sharpe,” he exclaimed impulsively, “you 
must know what I want. You must have seen ” 


276 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“Yes, yes, my dear boy, I have seen — I do know.’* 

“God bless you! you speak kindly. Is there .the ghost of 
a hope?” 

Lady Sharpe laughed and rose from her chair. 

“I am not going to betray a secret,” she exclaimed. “Go 
and talk to Dorothy. I fancy she must have expected you 
this afternoon, for nothing would induce her to go out.” 

“I’ll give up the house if she objects to it. I would not 
hurt her feelings for the world. I honor her for her grief. 
Digby was worthy of it.” 

“That he was. Dorothy would not be in the world now, 
if it had not been for his care. Mr. Crichton, you have 
heard, you must have heard, that her life is not a strong 
one.” 

“I have heard something of the kind, but all the more 
reason that I should cherish it if she will let me.” 

“Well, go and have a talk with her. I know you are a 
favorite, but I can admit nothing further.” 

Lady Sharpe left the room, and Crichton, after a brief 
hesitation, stepped on to the balcony, and stood by Dorothy’s 
side. 

“You know what I have come for?” he said, looking into 
her eyes. “You must have seen it for a long time. Dorothy 
— forgive me for calling you by your name — you must have 
seen that I love you beyond all else on earth.” 

“I — I know,” said Dorothy. She turned her head away, 
her hands trembled. 

“And you love me,” exclaimed the young man. “Say 
yes, Dorothy. Say you will be my wife. I know I can make 
you happy, that is, if devotion — the deepest devotion, can 
effect anything.” 

“Yes,” she replied, looking him full in the face now, “I 
know that with you I should have that perfect happiness 
■which comes now and then in this world; but it cannot be, 
Mr. Crichton. It can never, never be.” 

Dorofhy turned away once more. She put her hands to her 
face, the tears trickled through her fingers. 

“My darling, there is some mystery here,” said Crichton. 
“If you love me and I love you, why cannot we marry? 
Your mother does not object. I spoke to her about you, and 
I am quite convinced by her manner that she would give you 
to me. Sir Probyn, too, has always been most friendly. Why 
do you fear, Dorothy? If it would be perfect happiness to 


OUGHT CONSUMPTIVE PEOPLE TO MABRY f 277 


us both to live together, why should we deny ourselves what 
God evidently meant us to enjoy ?” 

“ It cannot be,” repeated Dorothy. 

“Is it because of the house that I have taken? Surely my 
presence would chase all the ghosts away. But if that is your 
real objection, Dorothy, I will take another house. I will 
give up No. 48 Ilartrick Street at any sacrifice. Listen, con- 
sider. Don’t cast me off; all my future depends on you.” 

“It must not,” she replied. 

She had wiped her tears away now, and looked at him with 
a sweet, pale face. “I do love you,” she said, “but I don’t 
think I ought to marry you ; I don’t think I ought to marry 
anyone.” 

“ Why do you say that? You must give me your reason.” 

“Don’t ask me for my reason.” 

“ It is scarcely fair of you to withhold it. You must have 
seen for months, for nearly a year, that I cared for you ; you 
have not discouraged me. It is due to me now that you should 
speak quite frankly.” 

“I did encourage you,” said Dorothy. “When you spoke 
to me I derived pleasure; when you were kind it seemed as 
if the sun shone. I had been happy before you came — my 
temperament is naturally a happy one; but the joy I felt in 
your presence, in your apparent regard, was greater than any 
joy I had known before in my life.” 

“Then, Dorothy, dear, dearest, it is all right!” exclaimed 
the young man. “ Take my hand, forget your apprehensions ; 
they are doubtless of no consequence. Say you will be my 
wife, and all the scruples that exist in your breast I promise 
to banish.” 

“You can never banish them,” replied Dorothy. “I will 
tell you quite simply the facts of the case. When I was 
quite a young girl my mother took me to see Dr. Digby. He 
said I was delicate. I did not quite know what was the 
matter, but I saw anxiety on my mother’s face, and I knew by 
my father’s tone that he feared something when he looked at 
me. 

“Dr. Digby was most kind. He went with us the first 
time we went to the Engadine — he was my physician both 
morally and physically ; I grew strong in mind as well as in 
body under his care. I came back, I felt well — very well. 
No girl ever looked out at life with brighter eyes. I went 
again to the Engadine, and again came back in perfect health. 


278 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


I remained well all during the summer of this year. I met you. 
It became apparent to me that you did like me beyond the lik- 
ing you would give to an ordinary girl. I was glad ; my heart 
was full of joy. Do you remember that picnic on the Thames? 
You were there. I think it was my last really happy day. 
You know what happened that evening; the awful carriage 
accident, and the death of our — our very best and dearest 
friend. I got a shock when he died ; it seemed to me as if a 
part of my vitality went away. The old, weary, tired feeling 
came back — I struggled against it, but struggling only made 
it worse. I used to wake up at night and think, at first with 
a sort of pleasure — I can send for Dr. Digby in the morning, 
he will soon put me right. Then I remembered that he was 
dead — there was no one else to turn to. I cried myself back 
to sleep, and got up good for nothing. 

“We went away when the season was over, and I got 
better, but I have never been quite well since. I try to hide 
it from my mother and my father, but I am not really quite 
well now. Mr. Crichton, I know at last the name of the thing 
that ails me. Let me say it low — it is a terrible word — I 
shall die of consumption. That terrible malady is in my 
system; it will develop, for the one man who could cure it, or 
at least keep it at bay, is in his grave. Mr. Crichton, you do 
not want to marry a consumptive wife; if you did, if you 
wished it a thousandfold, I should still say, No. I love you; 
that is why I wish to save you from such a fate.” 

While Dorothy was speaking, Crichton’s sallow face turned 
one or two shades paler. lie had always heard of Miss 
Sharpe’s delicacy. He knew that she was more cared for, 
more wrapped round with tenderness and consideration, than 
fell to the lot of most girls. He did not trouble himself 
greatly with regard to the rumors which reached him; on 
the contrary, he loved Dorothy more for that fragile loveli- 
ness, that etherealness, which was one of her charms. He 
thought with delight of the time when he should shelter her 
from the roughest winds — he imagined her growing strong, 
really strong, under his care. Now his heart beat heavily. 
He loved Dorothy more than anyone else in the world ; but 
to marry a consumptive wife, to transmit that terrible 
scourge to his children, were things which moved him. He 
did not reply for a moment, then he said with agitation : 

“I can see you are not strong; I have always known that. 
There is no accounting for the fancies that people take when 


OUGHT CONSUMPTIVE PEOPLE TO MARK Y? 279 


their health is weak. I do not believe that you are consump- 
tive — why should you say the horrible word? — you do not look 
like it.” 

“Don’t I?” said Dorothy, glancing at him. 

The very expression of her face gave him a pang. In her 
face, now that his eyes were opened, he saw symptoms of the 
disease which fills its victims with a strange, unearthly beauty : 
the fragile, slightly willowy figure, the clear blue veins 
which showed through the white skin, the beautiful, too 
bright color on the cheeks, the too radiant light in the eyes. 
Crichton turned away. 

“You would not wish to marry a consumptive wife,” said 
Dorothy; “I hear it in your voice— I see it in your face. 
The matter is settled. We are friends, the best of friends. 
I thank you for all you have said to me; I thank you still 
more for the feelings which I know exist in your heart toward 
me. Let us be good friends while I live, and let me help you 
to choose another wife.” 

“By Jove, no, you shan’t do that!” said Crichton. “See 
here, Miss Sharpe, your words have given me a blow. I 
know something of the scourge of consumption. I frankly 
admit that consumptive people ought not to marry; but 
there’s something else I won’t admit, and that is that the 
seeds of consumption lurk in your frame. You say that you 
were supposed to be stricken with it when you were a very 
young girl?” 

“Yes, I was scarcely fifteen when we first went to the En- 
gadine.” 

“How many years ago is that?” 

“Seven years.” 

Crichton laughed in a relieved manner. 

“Even Digby could scarcely keep consumption at bay 
for seven years,” he said. “I do not believe in your fears.” 

“Do not people live as long as that when they have con- 
sumption?” asked Dorothy. 

“ In some cases people live for a long time, but yours is not 
the true history of the complaint. They do not get perfectly 
well for years and years. I believe you have made a mistake. 
Did anyone absolutely tell you that you were consumptive?” 

“No one told me. It was carefully hidden from me, but 
I once had my suspicions. This summer, when I felt weak 
and tired again, I came across an old medical book, and I read 
a paper on tubercular disease. I guessed at once by my own 


280 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


symptoms that this was the terrible complaint with which I 
was threatened. I longed to ask my mother, but I re- 
frained.” 

“I don’t believe you have consumption,” said Crichton. 
“You are weak and depressed; you have gone through great 
sorrow; your imagination runs away with you.” 

“You can ask my mother; she will tell you the truth.” 

“I will, if you wish it; in the meantime there is something 
more important to discuss. Suppose you are free from this 
complaint, will you be my wife?” 

“ If a physician tells me that I am quite free from consump- 
tion, I will marry you,” answered Dorothy. 

She put her slender hands in his as she spoke. He drew her 
to his side and kissed her. 

“We will hope for the best,” he said. He glanced into 
her face. “You look better already. You are only nervous. 
I do firmly believe that nervousness can simulate anything. 
When you are married to me, I shall have you the strongest 
and happiest woman in London.” 

Crichton went away after a time, and Dorothy returned to 
her mother. 

“Mother,” she said at once, “Mr. Crichton has asked me 
to be his wife.” 

Lady Sharpe went up to her daughter, put her arms round 
her, and kissed her. 

“I know what your answer must have been, Dolly,” she 
said. “There is no better fellow in the world than Frank 
Crichton, and you love him, my darling. I have seen your 
secret in your face.” 

“I do love him, mother.” 

“You have promised to marry him?” 

“ Conditionally.” 

Dorothy sat down. She pressed her hand for a moment to 
her side. 

“Have you a pain?” asked Lady Sharpe. “Do you feel 
ill?” 

“ l Nothing to speak of. Just that horrid, tired, dragged 
sort of feeling. I suppose I have been excited, and this is 
the reaction. It is nothing. Mother, I want to ask you a 
question.” 

“Yes, my darling; and you will also tell me why you have 
not absolutely accepted Frank?” 


OUGHT CONSUMPTIVE PEOPLE TO MARRY? 281 


“ I will to-morrow or the next day. Mother, I want to ask 
you where Cecilia Digby is at present. You told me once 
that you had her address.” 

“You want to see her?” 

“Yes, I want to see her badly.” 

“ I can tell you where she is to be found. She is living in 
a small house in the country, near High Barnet. Shall we 
ask her to come up and spend a day with us? Poor Cecilia! 
She begged of me not to come to her yet, but if you really 
want her, Dorothy ” 

“I do want her, mother; but I would rather go to her, if 
you don’t mind.” 

“I will go with you, then, darling. Shall we send her a 
telegram, and ask her to expect us to-morrow?” 

“I should like best to go alone, mother dearest. I can take 
Palmer with me, you know.” 

“Well, my darling, you shall have your wish. I don’t like 
the expression on your face, Dolly. You seem overanxious; 
there is something troubling you, and you won’t tell it to your 
mother.” 

“I will after I have seen Cecilia. I have just a little dread 
lurking in my heart. I have a wish to confide in Cecilia. 
When I come back my'fear may have vanished — if so, where 
is the use of talking about it. If it vanishes, if she can set 
my heart at rest, oh, mother, mother, what a happy girl I 
shall be!” 

“Shall I tell your father about Mr. Crichton’s proposal, 
Dorothy?” 

“ I have asked Frank not* to speak to father yet. The 
chances are equal, perhaps more than equal, that I shall not 
be able to accept him. There is no use in worrying my father 
unnecessarily.” 

“Well, dearest, it must be as you wish. Shall I telegraph 
to Mrs. Digby, and tell her to expect you?” 

“Please do, mother. Say that if fine I shall be with her in 
the morning.” 

Lady Sharpe sent off the telegram, and in course of time 
an answer was received. 

Cecilia would be delighted to see Dorothy. 

The next day proved cloudless and lovely, and Miss Sharpe, 
accompanied by her maid, went down to High Barnet. 
Cecilia ^as waiting on the platform to receive her friend, 


282 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


They kissed each other gravely — they had not met since 
Digby ’s death — then they walked back to Cecilia’s small house 
almost in silence. 

“You don’t look well, Dorothy,” said Cecilia, when they 
were alone. “You are much thinner than you used to be.” 

“Yes, that is just it,” said Dorothy, clasping and unclasp- 
ing her hands. “ I will tell you everything quite simply, 
and then you shall advise me. I know that your husband 
told you many things with regard to the profession which the 
wives of doctors do not ordinarily know.” 

“I took such a vast interest in the subject,” said Cecilia. 
“I often fear I worried Laurence with questions.” 

“Cecilia, did you ever ask him anything with regard to 
consumptive cases?” 

“ Why do you ask me ? ” replied Cecilia, starting and 
coloring brightly. 

“ I have a fancy, a hope, that you did so, for I know that 
Dr. Digby made consumption his specialty.” 

“ He was much interested in that class of disease,” answered 
Cecilia. 

“ I know he was. It was through his great skill that I 
was cured long ago.” 

“ He was always proud of you, Dorothy. Why do you turn 
so pale, dear ? ” 

“ I will tell you now why I have come to you, Cecil. Cecil, 
I am in trouble ; my heart is full; let me put my head on your 
shoulder and cry for a minute or two.” 

Cecilia stretched out her arms, drew the slight, childish 
creature into them, and pressed her to her heart. 

“ I kiss you as I would Nance,” she said ; “ sometimes I 
look upon you as my grown-up child.” 

“ And I love you. It comforts me to talk to you. Dear 
Cecil, you have gone through awful sorrow since I saw you 
last.” 

“We won’t talk of it, dear. It lies heavy within me. 
Sometimes it seems to slumber — we won’t wake it. I have 
terrible moments when it wakes. Now, let us talk about your 
worries. Dorothy, you always seemed as if trouble could 
not touch you. What is the matter ? Tell me.” 

“ I can tell you in a few words. Your husband’s death was 
the first real sorrow that came to me. It seems to have 
brought others in its train. You know Mr. Crichton?” 

“ Of course — lie has taken our old house.” 


OUGHT CONSUMPTIVE PEOPLE TO MARRY? 283 


“Yes ; be wants me to go and live with him in that home. 
Do you mind ? If it ever came to pass, could you bear the 
thought ? ” 

“ Could I bear it, Dorothy ? I should love you to be there ! 
Let me kiss you, let me congratulate you. Surely this is no 
trouble, my love ? Laurence often spoke to me about Mr. 
Crichton — he thought most highly of him.” 

“ I am glad of that,” said Dorothy. “ I have guessed as 
much. Yes, I know Frank — Mr. Crichton — is very good, very 
worthy. I ” 

“ Say at once that you love him with your whole heart, 
Dolly. Why should you be ashamed ? Why should you 
mince matters ? and, above all, why should you look at me 
with such a world of trouble in your face, and talk of 
fresh sorrow which has come to you at such a moment as 
this ? ” 

“ Perhaps you can set my heart at rest,” replied Dorothy. 
“ I will admit to you that at the present moment I am full of 
apprehension — I tremble,. I fear. I long for the happy life 
which seems to open before me, I long for the cup of joy 
which almost touches my lips.” 

“Dearest Dorothy, if Laurence were alive, and if he could 
see you to-day, he would say that you were overnervous, 
that you are slightly hysterical. He would speak of your 
present condition as the reverse of healthy.” 

“ I don’t think he would, Cecilia. Your husband never 
made light of a real trouble. I am not hysterical, 013^ sorrow 
is all too real. Now, to come to the point, did Dr. Digby ever 
tell you in the old days the nature of the illness with which I 
was threatened ? You must be frank with me. You must 
tell me the truth. I ” 

“I will tell you the simple truth. He thought you were 
threatened with consumption ; he was much pleased after- 
ward to discover that the amount of mischief in your lungs 
was arrested, practically cured.” 

“ Yes, yes. He said that, did he ? He said that I was 
cured ? ” 

“He said that the disease was arrested.” 

“ Did he ever say it was likely to spring into life again, 
Cecilia? ” 

“ I cannot recall his making use of those words.” 

“You are hiding something from me. What was his im- 
pression ? ” 


284 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“ I cannot tell you ; he always spoke of you with great 
pleasure. The thought of your case gave him comfort even 
in his darkest moments.” 

“ I have not been so well lately. If he were here and could 
sound my lungs to-day, I doubt if he would find them free 
from disease. The old weariness has come back, my side 
aches often, I cough, at night I am feverish. At times I feel 
quite well again, but at other times I scarcely care to live. 
Cecilia, even in the old days I hadn’t such a distaste for life 
as I have now.” 

“ But not when you think of Mr. Crichton,” said Cecilia. 
“ When you remember what love — real, earnest love — means 
you must wish to live, Dorothy.” 

“ Yes, but my body remains tired ; it is tired now.” 

“ Do you really care very much for Mr. Crichton ? ” asked 
Mrs. Digby. 

“ I love him,” repeated Dorothy, “ but I have made up my 
mind. If there is the least chance of my dying of consump- 
tion, I will never be his wife.” 

While Dorothy was speaking, Mrs. Digby’s face underwent 
a queer change. She moved away from the frail girl, who 
had been half leaning against her, and surveyed her sorrow- 
fully from head to foot. 

Dorothy’s whole attitude was one of broken-down dejection. 
The light had gone out of her speaking eyes, the color had 
faded from her cheeks. The absence of color and light 
brought out marked hollows in the young face, the blue veins 
were too visible even for beauty. 

Cecilia felt a pang like a sword going through her as she 
watched the young girl. What would Laurence say if he 
saw his favorite patient now ? 

“ Why don’t you speak, Cecilia ? ” questioned Dorothy. 
“ Why do you look at me in that queer way ? ” 

“ I was thinking about you, darling. Dorothy, if you are 
really consumptive, you do right not to marry.” 

“ Yes. It is sometimes very difficult to- do right.” 

“ It is. The present pain is very severe, but that pain is 
nothing, nothing to the pain that follows a mistake, even a 
mistake made^un willingly. Suppose, Dorothy, that you marry, 
and have children of your own — that contingency has to be 
faced — you, their mother, may sow within them the seeds of 
death. That is a very horrible knowledge — it comes to some 
people — don’t let us talk of it an}^ more. Lunch is ready in 


OUGHT CONSUMPTIVE PEOPLE TO MARRY? 285 


the other room. You look ready to drop with fatigue ; come 
and eat.” 

“ Not yet ; I have another thing to say. Your husband 
thought he had cured me?” 

“ No ; there you are mistaken. He thought the disease 
was arrested. To arrest the progress of a living thing is dif- 
ferent from killing it out and out.” 

“ You yourself think it will revive ? ” 

“ I ? I don’t think ; I’m not a doctor.” 

“ I may be mistaken in my sensations, Cecilia. Frank 
Crichton says I am nervous. What I feel may simply be due 
to nervousness.” 

“ You don’t look well, dearest Dolly.” 

“ I came to ask you a question, and you have answered it. 
In case your answer was what I dreaded, I had a further favor 
to ask.” 

“ Ask it, dear. I am but too ready to grant.” 

“ Now that your husband has left us, who is the best doc- 
tor for diseases of the lungs ? ” 

“ Laurence always consulted with Dr. Arbutlinot, in Han- 
over Square.” 

“ I should like to see him.” 

“ Yes, it would be wise of you to go. He is clever and kind. 
My husband thought most highly of him. Get Lady Sharpe 
to take you at once, Dorothy.” 

“That is just the point. I don’t want my mother to take 
me. I want to go with you. Will you come with me ? ” 

“ Your mother is the right person, Dolly.” 

“ No, she isn’t. You make a vast mistake. My dear, sweet, 
good mother is overanxious about me. Her anxieties have 
redoubled since your husband’s death. I never cough that I 
do not feel as if I was running a nail into her coffin. Some- 
times, much as I love her, I have an insane desire to run away 
from her in order to have the luxury of crying and wringing 
my hands and bewailing myself in secret. It is awful to have 
to suppress every groan and ache, and yet I must always do so 
in my mother’s presence, for I see by the suffering in her eyes 
what she is enduring. I may be quite as well as when your 
husband died, Cecilia, and in that case what is the use of 
troubling mother ? ” 

“ Very well, Dorothy, I will go with you to Dr. Arbutli- 
not.” 

“How sweet and dear of you ! I knew you would. May 


286 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 

I stay here to-night ? I will send Palmer home; she can take 
a letter to mother. I can write the sort of letter that will 
make my mother quite glad to let me stay with you. Then we 
can go to Dr. Arbuthnot’s to-morrow morning.” 

“ Very well.” 

“ Thank you, thank you. That is a load off my heart 
already. I feel quite well and young and hungry once more. 
Where is Nance ? May I run and find her ? And where is 
Henny-Penny ? This is a dear, old-fashioned, little house, 
Cecilia. Don’t you like it very much? Oh, who is that 
queer old woman who has just passed the window ? ” 

“ That is Miss Timmins. I must introduce Amu to her. You 
call her queer, but that uncouth frame happens to be the 
tabernacle which holds an angel. Now, before we talk any 
more, I must insist upon your coming in to lunch.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE OLD SCHOOL OF MEDICINE. 

Dorothy’s programme was carried out almost to the letter. 
She spent the night with Cecilia, and the next morning the two 
went together to see Dr. Arbuthnot. He was an old man, 
Digby’s senior by quite twenty years. He had known Mrs. 
Digby slightly in her husband’s lifetime, and took a special in- 
terest now in the young patient whom she brought to see him. 

Dr. Arbuthnot’s manners were very cheerful, and Dorothy 
felt a degree of courage and hope while he talked to her. 

“ You must eat plenty, laugh plenty, and get all the sunshine 
you can,” he said after he had examined her lungs. “I sup- 
pose your father and mother mean to take you abroad this 
Avinter ? ” 

a I don’t know. We were at Davos Platz the year before 
last.” 

“ Ah, I don’t quite approve of that cold rarefied air. It does 
good in some cases, but there is always a risk. The right 
place for you is the Riviera. By the way, can I see your 
mother ? ” 

Dorothy turned pale, her lips trembled. 

“You have not told me yet if my lungs are affected,” she 
asked, in a faltering voice. 

“Oh, pooh! Nothing to make a fuss over. The left lung 
might be a little sounder, but if you obey directions you have 


TEE OLD SCHOOL OF MEDICINE. 


287 


nothing to apprehend. I should like to talk the matter over 
with your mother ? ” 

“ I don’t want my mother to be made anxious. I am her 
only child.” 

“ Well, your father will do. I know Sir Probyn well by 
name. He’s safe to get the next judgeship. A word with 
him just with regard to your treatment.” 

“ My father is just as anxious as my mother.” 

“ I see you are a good, brave little girl, but there is really 
no occasion for anyone to be anxious. I make a rule of never 
telling patients how they are to treat themselves, and I merely 
wish to see your father or your mother in order to discuss the 
best place for you to winter in. What is the matter?” 

“ Cecilia, will you see Dr. Arbuthnot by himself ? ” asked 
Dorothy, in a choked voice. She rushed to the door, opened 
it, and went out. 

The physician turned to Mrs. Digby. 

“Your little friend is highly nervous,” he said. “ Why is 
she so anxious to conceal her state from her parents ? ” 

“ They worry her with overanxiety, as it is,” answered 
Cecilia. “She is their only child. 1 believe they lost all 
their others through the cause which now threatens Doro- 
thy’s life.” 

“ How do you know what threatens her life ? ” 

“My husband has spoken to me of her — I know she is, or 
was, consumptive.” 

“ Your husband talked to you about his patients ? Rather 
an uncommon proceeding. Well, you sympathized with him; 
I can see that by your face.” 

“ I sympathized with my husband with all my heart, and 
soul, and strength,” answered Cecilia, in a solemn voice. 

She stood upright, holding the back of a chair with one of 
her slender hands. Dr. Arbuthnot gave her one of his light- 
ning glances. He was a very shrewd observer of character, 
and he saw directly that Mrs. "Digby had intellect and courage 
above the average woman. 

“ You are very fond of that little girl,” he said. 

“ Yes, I love her,” replied Cecilia ; “ she is sweet, and she 
is brave. She wishes to conceal the truth from her parents, 
but at the same time it is necessary for her to know the 
truth.” 

“ I do not agree with you ; it would be the worst thing in 
the world for her to know the truth. 


288 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“ She is all but engaged to be married,” continued Cecilia. 
“ She waits for your verdict to decide whether to accept the 
man she loves or not.” 

“ Poor child ! ” replied the physician ; “ she certainly is in 
no state for marriage. I could not counsel it for a minute. 
I am sorry for this fact, as it lessens her chance of life. It 
will affect her spirits, and the malady will then make more 
rapid progress. Poor thing ! of course, it would do her, 
personally, no harm to marry, but in such a case we have to 
think of others. I do not approve of consumptive people 
bringing children into the world ; it is absolutely wrong.” 

“ You have not yet told me what you think of her case,” 
said Cecilia. 

“ There is a considerable patch of tubercle on the left lung, 
and the right is not free from disease. She had better go to 
the Riviera without delay.” 

“ My husband sent her to the Engadine. The rarefied air 
had a very beneficial effect upon her. He spoke to me of her 
often. He said how satisfied he was with the effect of the 
cold treatment on Dorothy’s lungs. He said that the patch 
of tubercle she had when lie first examined her had absolutely 
dried up.” 

“ Yes, yes, doubtless.” Dr. Arbuthnot rose from his chair. 
“ Your husband had, let us call them, advanced views, Mrs. 
Digby. I do not deny that cold air in high latitudes has 
effected cures, but I believe the cures to be fewer than the 
cases of patients who have received injury from so severe a 
treatment.” 

“ My husband said ” 

“ Yes ; Digby was a very clever man ; I had the highest 
possible.respect for him. lie made consumption his specialty, 
but I am bound to say that, although we always agreed in 
diagnosis, when it came to treatment we widely differed. I 
am an old man, and the old ideas are sufficient for me. I 
could not possibly advise Miss Sharpe to go to the Engadine 
in the present state of her health. If she goes to Spain, or 
Egypt, or the Riviera, she may live for a long time.” 

“ Is she likely to recover ? ” 

“ Never. Quite impossible. I am sorry to give you so 
dismal a verdict, but you must make the best of it when 
speaking to your young friend. There is no need at present 
to alarm her. I mean by this that no immediate danger may 
be apprehended. If she lives abroad she may continue to 


THE OLD SCHOOL OF MEDICINE. 


289 


exist for several years. I would not give her six months in 
this country. It would be best for me to see her parents.” 

“ I do not think she wishes it. She particularly wanted to 
come to you alone with me. She loves her mother and father 
dearly, but you can understand that their overanxiety helps 
to depress her.” 

“ I can understand it perfectly. Good-by, Mrs. Digby. 
If I can do anything for you at any time, pray command 
me.” 

Cecilia went away, and she and Dorothy got into a hansom 
together. 

“ You have not told me yet what he said,” asked Dorothy, 
turning her white face toward her friend. 

“ First of all, Dolly, where are we to drive to? Your 
mother’s house, or where ? 

“ Not home yet,” she answered, almost fretfully. “ Tell 
the driver to take us into the park — anywhere. Take the cab 
by the hour. I feel as if I should stifle. My heart beats so 
hard I think it will burst. Cecilia, I know by your face that 
you have bad tidings.” 

Cecilia opened the little trap door in the roof of the han- 
som, and gave some directions to the cabman; then she turned 
to Dorothy. 

“ Dear Dolly,” she said, in her gentlest voice, “you told 
me yesterday that life was a weariness.” 

“ Sometimes, but not at this moment. See how brightly the 
sun shines; notice how lovely the world looks. I do want to 
live at this moment. The grave is dark; I don’t wish to go 
into it. I know you have bad news for me, and perhaps I 
shall be resigned in time.” 

“ The doctor does think badly of you, Dorothy ; he con- 
firms your own opinion of yourself.” 

“ Did you tell him I was half engaged to be married ? I 
hope you did.” 

“ I did. I mentioned no name, of course, but I stated the 
fact.” 

“ And what did he say ? ” 

Cecilia shook her head. 

“ What could he say, Dorothy ? ” 

“ I know, I know,” answered the poor girl. Tears filled 
her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks. 

“ Poor Frank ! ” she said, after a pause. “Poor father and 
mother ! Yes, I will try and bear up. I will try and re- 


200 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


member the words your husband used to say to me. I used 
now and then — very seldom — to get fits of despondency that 
first time we went to the Engadine. I remember his asking me 
about it one day, and I said, ‘ I feel ill, and I am afraid of 
death.’ He took my two lfands in one of his big ones, and he 
looked into my eyes, and he said, ‘ It is my firm conviction 
that death, when it comes, will be found more beautiful 
than life. When the veil is torn aside we shall be satis- 
fied. Here, in our most joyful moments, we are never 
satisfied.’ ” 

“ I am glad you told me of those words, Dorothy,” an- 
swered Cecilia. “ I will treasure them ; they will comfort my 
own heart. Now, Dolly, you must try and cheer up, you 
must try hard to be brave ; Dr. Arbuthnot gave no hope of 
your being able to marry, but ” 

“ Why do you say but , Cecilia ? Have you any hope — have 
you the shadow of a hope regarding me ? ” 

“ I don’t know, I don’t know ! Don’t ask me. In the 
meantime, you are in no present danger — you may even live 
for years, but the doctor wishes you to go abroad. You are 
not to be in England except in fine weather. He would like 
you to spend a very short time in England. He wishes you 
to go to the Riviera.” 

“ I hate the Riviera — I know it isn’t the right place for me. 
I went there as a little child. I was ill, nervous, and miser- 
able ; I could never sleep at night, and my heart always beat 
too fast. I am convinced that the Riviera is not the right 
place for me.” 

“ My husband never thought it the right place for you, 
Dorothy.” 

“Then I won’t go. I don’t care if fifty Dr. Arbuthnots 
order me there. After all, I only went to him for an opinion : 
I need not be guided by his advice.” 

“ You must see some doctor, Dorothy ; you cannot possibly 
continue in your present state without treatment. I think it 
is only right that you should tell your father and mother that 
you went to Dr. Arbuthnot. In short, it is your duty to put 
your case into the hands of your parents.” 

“ I will not,” answered the girl fretfully. “ They worry 
me. Cecilia, I wish I might live with you.” 

“ I should like to have you with me, but your father and 
mother ” 

“ I love them with all my heart, but I wish they would hold 


THE OLE SCHOOL OF MEDICINE. 


291 


me with a lighter clasp. Sometimes I feel their love almost 
selfish. There, I cannot speak of this at the present moment. 
Frank is coming to see me ; what answer shall I give him ? 
Cecilia, you have a queer look on your face. Do you know 
that it reminds me of something ? ” 

“ Of what, my love ? ” 

“ Of a little conversation I overheard many years ago. Dr. 
Phillips had come in to see my mother. He spoke of your 
husband. I was in the inner drawing room — neither my 
mother nor the doctor thought I could possibly hear. I was 
a naughty little girl. I knew they were talking of me, and I 
strained my ears. I had sharp hearing and I caught a good 
many words. What is the matter, Cecil?” 

“ Nothing, Dorothy. Go on, tell me your story.” 

“ They spoke of Dr. Digby ; it was the first time I had 
ever heard his name mentioned. I heard Dr. Phillips say dis- 
tinctly, 4 It is my undoubted belief that he holds in his hands 
an infallible cure! An infallible cure ! Oh, the hope that 
filled my mother’s eyes ! 1 An infallible cure,’ repeated Dr. 

Phillips. ‘ For some reason he keeps it dark for the present, 
but that it exists I am absolutely certain. You had better go 
and see him to-morrow, Lady Sharpe.’ Then my mother said, 

‘ Shall I take Dorothy ? ’ and Dr. Phillips said, 1 Yes, by all 
means — by all means.’ He went away, and mother took me 
to see your husband. Do you remember opening the door 
for us, Cecil ? How pretty you looked, and how proud, and 
how stupidly you tried to hide your white hands under your 
apron. I noticed your hands and so did mother. Well, well, 
the infallible cure didn’t exist : Dr. Phillips told an untruth. 
What is the matter, Cecil ? You still have that very queer 
look on your face. Is there a cure — a cure for consumption ? 
Do you know anything of it ? ” 

“ My darling, do you not think that if there was Laurence 
w'ould have tried it in your case?” 

“ I don’t know. He might have been afraid.” 

“ A good physician is never afraid to use a certain and 
safe remedy.” 

“ The remedy might be uncertain and not quite safe, then 
good physicians would hesitate.” 

“ What do you mean, Dorothy ? ” 

“I mean that the remedy might be of great value in some 
cases, but not in all. Oh ! how you excite me, Cecilia. You 
must, you shall, tell me the truth. Did your husband dis- 


292 


THE MEDICINE LADT. 


cover anything? Was there a shadow of truth in Dr. 
Phillips’s words ? ” 

“ I dare not answer you ; at least not now, not at once ; I 
must go home and think.” 

“ You will write to me — you will write soon ? ” 

“ I may never write to you on this subject.” 

“ I see by your face that Dr. Phillips was not altogether 
wrong.” 

“ I admit nothing, Dorothy. You must go home now. 
God help you, poor darling ! ” 

“ Cecilia, I will not enter my mother’s house until I wring 
a promise from you. You may take a week to think over it, 
but you must, you shall , tell me if your husband made a 
discovery, even a partial discovery, toward a cure for con- 
sumption. You have no right to keep me in the dark. I am 
weak and frail. My spirit is strong enough, but my body is 
very weak. It seems to me that when I say good-by to 
Frank to-day the sun will set! How can any poor creature 
live without the sun ? Cecilia, if there is even a ghost of a 
hope you ought to let me know.” 

“Dorothy, your words perplex and agitate me. I will 
write or come to see you in a day or two. I can say nothing 
further — nothing further now.” 

CHAPTER Y. 

A LIVING SECRET. 

Cecilia took the next train to High Barnet. Nance was 
waiting for her mother at the station. She stood on the 
platform, tall and slim, not holding Henny-Penny’s hand, but 
erect, her bright eyes watching each carriage as the train 
rushed past her, slackened speed, paused, and then stopped. 
Her long hair lay in heavy masses down her back. When 
she saw her mother, her lips broke into a glad cry. She 
rushed to her, linked her hand in her arm, and began to pour 
forth her usual eager babble of pretty nothings, and childish 
chatter. 

No, she had not been dreadfully lonely. Miss Timmins had 
been nice and had told her stories, and a lot of fresh seeds had 
come up in the garden, and Jones, the man who came once a 
week to do odd jobs, had shown her how to take cuttings, and 
then some kittens had arrived, and this event in itself was 
most exciting. The day had not been at all long ; but, of 


A LIVING SECItET. 


293 


course, Nance was delighted to have her mother back again. 

“ You seem to be fast recovering your spirits, darling,” said 
Cecilia, almost in a tone of reproach, for she had by no means 
herself risen above the morbidness which makes her think it 
wrong to be cheerful. 

“Fast recovering my spirits, mother?” repeated Nance. 
“ My spirits are all right. I’m awfully happy.” She raised 
her lovely gray eyes to her mother’s face with a swift, strong, 
tender glance which reminded Cecilia of Digby. The look 
on the child’s face exasperated, delighted, and yet half 
maddened the overtired woman. 

“ I thought you would remember your father,” she said 
with a cruelty she did not mean. 

“ I never forget him, mother,” replied the child. “When 
he went away he told me to be brave. To be really brave I 
must feel happy. Father’s awfully happy himself, I know, 
and so am I.” 

“Kiss me, Nance,” said Cecilia. 

She clasped the slender little figure to her breast. Her 
embrace was passionate and full of pain. She said no more 
until they got home. 

Miss Timmins was standing in the little ivy-covered porch 
to welcome the mother and child back. She had a great 
insight into character, and could read faces with more com- 
prehension than many people can read books. She saw at a 
glance that there was a change in Mrs. Digby. Since her 
husband’s death, Cecilia had lived in a sort of uniform, 
monotonous, dead calm. For some reason she had got into 
stormy waters to-night ; her expression was almost irritable. 
It was with difficulty that she could listen to the light chit- 
chat which Nance and old Abigail kept up between them. 

Cecilia was not interested in the new kitten’s name, and her 
“Very pretty — very pretty,” when Nance begged her to 
admire its tortoise-shell coat, had no meaning in it. 

After supper Nance went to bed, and Cecilia told Miss 
Timmins that she was going into her private sitting room 
and might sit up for some time. 

“You look very tired, my love,” said the old lady. 

“ I have done nothing really to tire me,” she answered. 
“To run up to town and back was a mere bagatelle.” 

“ What did the doctor say of that sweet, pretty girl ?” 

“ He thinks badly of her, Aunt Abigail. Please don’t ask 
me an}'- further questions.” 


294 THE MEDICINE LADY. 

Miss Timmins refrained, and Cecilia locked herself into her 
sitting room. 

The nights were getting chilly now, hut she did not feel 
cold. She lit a lamp, and placing it on her husband’s secre- 
tary, which was the one substantial piece of furniture in the 
room, sat down before it. Her hands trembled, her head 
reeled. She felt weak, depressed, and yet she had a queer, 
desperate sensation, more dominant than either the weakness 
or depression. 

Yielding to this strange, overmastering feeling, she put 
her hand into her pocket, took out her bunch of keys, and 
fitting one into the small top left-hand drawer, slowly turned 
the key in the lock, and pulled it open. 

The drawer contained one possession — a sealed packet. 

Cecilia took the packet out of the drawer, laid it on the 
secretary, and read a direction which she herself had inscribed 
on it: 

" Arthur Dickinson, Esq., M. D., 

“ Broolc Street .” 

She read these words half a dozen times; they seemed to 
possess no meaning for her. She pushed the little parcel away 
from her at last, and regarded it with a steady, growing fear. 

“ What have I done?” she said to herself. “It is three 
months since I directed that parcel. It belongs to Dr. Dick- 
inson — it is not mine. What is it doing in the drawer of my 
husband’s secretary ? 

She jumped up, and walked to the other end of the room. 

It was a tiny room, and the bookshelves, which nearly 
covered the walls, were well filled with books. They were 
almost all medical books, and some of them of great value. 
Cecilia took a large volume down now, and began to read ; 
it was a medical dictionary, and instinctively she turned to 
an exhaustive paper on tubercular disease. 

She read it through. Leaning the book on the mantelpiece, 
and standing by it, she devoured the pages. While she read, 
her pale, somewhat worn face became illuminated with a fine 
intelligence. Her eyes grew dark with the thought that 
filled them. The ideas and knowledge of the master who 
had written the articles were absorbed with fierce rapidity 
by a too receptive brain. 

Digby’s eyes must often have traveled over this article, 
for it was heavily scored in many parts, and notes in his legi- 
ble hand were also inscribed on the margins. 


A LIVING SECRET. 


295 


Cecilia read the long paper to its end ; then, shutting the 
book, she clasped her hands, and began to pace up and down 
the small room. 

“ Oh ! ” she exclaimed aloud, and with passion, “ if only 
my husband had lived to perfect his discovery, what a differ- 
ent world it would now be ! Dorothy’s heart would not 
break — she, with tens of thousands of other victims, would 
not have to go out of the sunshine of life into the dark, dread 
shadow of death. O Laurence ! why did you ever do any- 
thing else all your life but try to perfect the idea which was 
surely sent to you from heaven ? ” 

Cecilia stood still in her rapid walk. She pressed her hand 
to her fast beating heart. 

“ I have felt dead since the day my husband was taken 
from me,” she murmured; “ but I awoke to new life in that 
consulting room to-day. Oh, that man’s crass stupidity ! His 
satisfaction with himself ! llis calm verdict on a young life! 
His sublime determination to ignore all newer lights, to live 
on contentedly in his mediaeval darkness ! I despise him — I 
could scarcely tolerate him. He said that he and my husband 
agreed as to diagnosis, but differed with regard to treatment. 
Differed ! of course they widely differed. But Laurence is 
in his grave, and Dorothy must be guided by the man whose 
ideas are twenty years behind his time. She must go to the 
Riviera, though I know, and she knows, that the climate will 
either kill her or drive her mad. Oh, if my husband were 
alive ! His favorite patient, too ! The very expression which 
I saw on her dear, beautiful, pathetic face to-day would have 
roused such a spirit in him that he would have worked at this 
discovery until he could proclaim it in triumph to a rejoicing, 
emancipated world.” 

Cecilia began to pace the room again. At last she paused 
before the secretary. 

“I am glad that I did not burn those papers,” she said. 
“ Heaven prevented me. I wonder what sort of a man Dr. 
Dickinson is. If he has a spark of spirit in him, if he has any 
love for true scientific research, if he has any love for a suffer- 
ing world, what a treasure will lie in his grasp ! I must 
take this parcel to him to-morrow. Oh! will he read it? 
Will he rejoice? Will he throw everything else aside for its 
sake ? Or, on the other hand, will he bury it in oblivion ? If 
I thought that ” 

Siie sank down once more in her husband’s chair. 


296 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“ If I thought that,” she repeated. She broke into a laugh, 
which was scarcely tuneful. Her face lost for the time its 
great tenderness of expression. 

“ I know what I will do!” she exclaimed. “I will read 
the papers myself before I take them to Dr. Dickinson. 
Laurence never forbade me to read them ; and my heart will 
be more at rest if I judge for myself how incomplete the dis- 
covery really is.” 

It is the first step that costs. Cecilia’s hands trembled 
much as they broke those seals, but when she had spread 
Digby’s papers before her, and when her eyes began to devour 
the closely written pages, she ceased to. feel either fear or 
nervousness. Every faculty became absorbed in what her 
mind was devouring. Emotion was held in abeyance. She 
read, she wondered, she rejoiced. 

The different papers were arranged alphabetically. From 
the earliest thought to the moment when he could say that 
he had a real discovery in his grasp, Digby had made notes 
of his progress, step by step. Cecilia felt some of the sensa- 
tions which had animated Phillips when he looked into the 
pocketbook long ago. She, too, read the words that had so 
filled James Phillips with wonder and desire. 

“ After various attempts have succeeded in obtaining a 
pure lymph. Have I in my hands the remedy for this terrible 
scourge f ” 

Cecilia read on. She knew her husband’s handwriting 
well — it was as clear and as easily deciphered as print. She 
passed over the account of the experiment he had made on 
himself to read further notes. 

“ If as I believe , tubercular disease is only hereditary in the 
sense that there is handed from parent to child a constitutional 
peculiarity ichich makes them , as it were , a suitable soil for the 
development of this poison, then , arguing from analogy , if I 
can alter the condition of the soil tubercular disease would 
have no effect. We see in disease acknowledged to be due to 
specific disease , that , having had the disease in ever so mild 
a way , those who have suffered do not again contract the same 
disease , or, at the worst, they only have it in a modified form.” 

Cecilia laid this paper aside to refer to by and by. She 
read another note half aloud. 

“ I have made experiments with this preparation. I have 
seen the results , and have found that afterward the injection 
of tubercular tissue itself has had no power to produce the 


A LIVING SECRET. 


297 


disease. I have even seen this in my own case. Was it be- 
cause the soil was originally unsuitable , or did I produce 
immunity by my remedy f Oh ! that I dared conscientiously 
use it on my fellow -creatures — on those sufferers known to 
be afflicted with the disease , or even on those who have a tend- 
ency to it. Will a moment ever come when I may put this 
great question at rest f ” 

“ I can’t understand my husband’s reluctance,” murmured 
Cecilia; “lie told me little, but these notes show me plainly 
that he used the remedy on himself with no bad results. 
Why should he have hesitated to make use of it in cases 
where the disease really existed ? Oh! what a thing courage 
is — I should not have been afraid.” She blushed when she 
said this, and, taking up her handkerchief, wiped the moisture 
from her brow. 

" If ever there was a man in all the world full of moral cour< 
age it was my husband,” she said to herself. “ I have no right to 
think of my courage as greater than his. I know that hi& 
was infinitely the greater. He would not dare for the sake 
of the human race to venture on a cure that might act as 
a poison. Why does my brain swim ? Why do my eyes almost 
refuse to see ? O Dorothy, if I could cure you! According 
to Laurence’s notes, if I could employ this agency in Dorothy’s 
case she would not only be cured herself, but it would be im- 
possible for her to transmit the disease to her children. If I 
could use this remedy, Dorothy would get well, and she might 
safely marry the man she loves. Of course, I can’t use it; 
what utter nonsense I am talking ! I have Laurence’s plain 
directions. He said, * I charge you, Cecilia, not to let these 
papers get into the hands of that unscrupulous man, James 
Phillips.’ It didn’t occur to him to say further, ‘ I charge 
you, above all things, not to let my remedy get into the hands 
of an ignorant woman, even though this woman be my own 
wife.’ Yes, Laurence, yes. I remember your charge. I won’t 
disobey. Dr. Dickinson shall have your valuable papers. It 
is all right, my dear husband. Fear nothing. You never 
forbade me to read your notes, however, and I must 
just once more dip into this subject to set my own mind at 
rest.” 

Cecilia read still further. 

“ The remedy does not seem specially dangerous. It did me 
no harm — that is, as far as I can tell — but what about those 
with the tendency to consumption already in them f Might 1 


298 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


not sow the very disease I wish to avert f That is the question 
of questions . Shall I ever solve it f If I live , this is possible. 
When I can bring a great leisure and all the best powers of 
my mind to bear upon it , I will study this matter f urther .” 

Turning over the pages restlessly, she came upon another 
paragraph, which both puzzled and fascinated her. 

Digby wrote as follows : 

“ I have arrived at a stage when I can inject the attenuated 
lymph into myself without injury / but here I am stranded — 
for I have no tendency to a tuberculous condition , and I find 
no possible method of trying the effects without risk on those 
for whom this remedy was intended. 

“ Would it be possible , by cultivating the lymph in different 
media — say , in starch and in gluten — and then by mixing the 
results , and again cultivating the mixture , to alter the chem- 
ical properties of my compound , and so obtain the desired 
panacea f By this , or some other method hidden in futurity , 
a safe and sure remedy will surely one day be found. Am I 
the man to discover it or is it the work of another f Thy will 
be done , 0 God. But oh , to realize the hopes of all thinking 
scientific men , and give the world the greatest blessing which 
could be bestowed on it ! ” 

These most valuable notes could scarcely be comprehended 
by their reader. She put them carefully aside, however, for 
further study, and then turned to some which absorbed every 
faculty of her mind — for they gave the fullest particulars 
with regard to the method by which the lymph, imperfect as 
Digby still considered it, was prepared. 

The carefully written notes mentioned with the utmost 
minuteness how the fluid was obtained — by what process of 
cultivation it was brought to its present attenuated condition. 
Each important step in the process was faithfully recorded. 

To Cecilia, whose ignorance made it impossible for her to 
see heaps of hidden difficulties, the whole idea seemed perfect 
and ready for use. 

Digby’s previous notes scarcely alarmed her ; she was fully 
convinced that the remedy was perfect now , and that only an 
over-sense of conscientiousness prevented her husband using 
it long ago. 

The means of attenuation, and the methods of cultivation 
were so accurately recorded that she felt as if she knew as 
much as her husband. 

“ He is dead, but his secret lives,” she exclaimed ; “ his 


A LIVING SECRET. 


299 


secret lives. I have nothing further to read ; these papers 
don’t belong to me ; they belong to Dr. Dickinson. I will 
take them to him. I will tell him boldly that I have read 
them. I will implore him, I will almost go on my knees to 
him, to give up his life to this great cause. If he refuses — 
ah ! good God, if he refuses ! If such a thing happens, I 
feel as if I must bring the papers away again. Can I pos- 
sibly persuade this doctor to obtain the lymph, to develop, to 
attenuate it by Laurence’s process, and then to try its effects 
on Dorothy. Dare I do this ? My head reels w^orse than 
ever ; I can think no more. I must go to bed.” 

Cecilia collected the papers, wrapped them in fresh foolscap 
paper, sealed and directed them anew. Then, after locking 
them into the drawer where her husband had always kept 
them, she went wearily upstairs to her own room. 

Nance was fast asleep in her mother’s bed. She always 
slept with her mother now, and many times at night Cecilia 
would clasp the child in her arms and feel that life was not all 
over with her as long as she kept this precious treasure. 

Nance coughed once or twice in her sleep to-night; there 
was a faint, a very faint, hectic color on her cheeks. 
Cecilia, stretching out her hands to clasp those of the sleeping 
child, found that they were wet with perspiration. Her heart 
stood still with a new fear. Suppose what her husband so 
dreaded was really coming to pass, and Nance, their only 
child, was beginning to develop those seeds of consumption 
which her mother had sown in her frame. 

Cecilia went to sleep at last to dream vividly and uncom- 
fortably. She passed the bounds of prudence and rectitude 
in these dreams. She felt something like an alchemist; but 
she also knew herself in her dream to be engaged in a nobler 
quest than that of any alchemist who ever lived. She was 
seeking with might and main to wrest his prey from Death. 
The beautiful, the young, the gifted, the noble, she was 
saving from an early grave; in short, having perfected her 
husband’s discovery, she was using it for the benefit of man- 
kind. 

She awoke unrefreshed from this sleep. Her dream horrified 
her; she shrank from it. 

Nance, quite well now, awoke with the birds, and seeing 
her mother’s eyes open, began to talk to her. She leant over 
and kissed Cecilia, and then laid her pretty he^d on her 
mother’s breast. 


300 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“ I was dreaming of father,” said Nance; “ I thought I was 
with him beyond the Golden Gates. We were haviug such an 
awfully jolly time. Shall I tell you about it ? ” 

“No, no; not this morning,” answered her mother. 

Cecilia felt the unholy influence of her own dream in the 
very air. She could not talk of Digby to his child with the 
consciousness that even in her sleep she ha’d wilfully disobeyed 
his dearest and strongest wish. 

“ I am going back to town again, Nance,” she said. 

“ May I come with you, mother ? ” 

“No, my love; town air is not good for you. You must 
stay at home. You must take a nice walk with Henny-Penny, 
and breathe as much country air as you can. You didn’t seem 
quite well in your sleep, Nance.” 

“ I was perfectly well, mother.” Nance laughed a little, 
then she added, looking full into her mother’s face: “ It’s you, 
mother, who are not well. Your face is pale, and yet it burns. 
Do you feel ill ? Mother, I don’t want you to go beyond the 
gates to father just yet.” 

“ No, my dearest, I am going to stay with you. I have my 
work to do.” 

“ What work ? ” asked the child. 

“ I can’t tell you, my love.” Cecilia laughed in the harsh 
way she had done in the study the night before. “ I don’t 
know that I have any special work to do unless it is to take 
great, great care of you, my little Nance.” 

“ You always do that. Are you really going to town to- 
day ? ” 

“ Yes, Nance; I am going to see a doctor.” 

“ Mother, then you must be ill ! ” 

“No, darling; I am taking the doctor a message which 
father left for him.” 

“ Father left a message for a doctor ? Is it a present from 
father that you are taking to him ?” 

“That is it, Nance; a most valuable, precious, costly 
gift.”. 

“ Did father tell you to take it to the doctor at once, 
or to keep it for two or three months and then give it to 
him ? ” 

Cecilia’s brow contracted with pain. 

“ Father didn’t name any time, Nance,” she answered. “ Get 
up now, my love, and I will follow you.” 

Henny-Penny came in and took Nance off for her bath. 


A LIVING SECRET. 


301 


Cecilia lay quiet a little longer, then she sprang up and pre- 
pared to dress. Her head was still giddy ; she felt faint and 
queer. A sudden desire not to move took possession of her. 
She lay back on her pillows once more and closed her eyes. 

This was the beginning of a short but rather sharp illness. 
In the course of the day the local doctor was sent for. He 
said that Mrs. Digby was feverish, and that there were cer- 
tain symptoms which might lead to pneumonia unless special 
care were taken. Cecilia lay and heard the words, and her 
heart beat more rapidly than ever. She was really ill, almost 
in danger for a night or two, and during one of these long 
night watches she whispered something to Miss Timmins : 

“ If I die, Aunt Abigail ” 

“ Yes, my love, I am listening ; not that you have the least 
intention of dying, but I am listening. ,, 

“ If I die,” continued Cecilia, “ there is a parcel in the left- 
hand drawer of the secretary which does not belong to me ; 
it is the property of Dr. Dickinson of Brook Street. Will 
you take it to him ? ” 

“ In the extremely unlikely event to which you allude 
occurring,” replied Miss Timmins, “ I will take the parcel to 
Dr. Dickinson. Is there any message to take with it ? ” 

“ I should like to write a letter to accompany the parcel ; 
may I ? ” 

“ Not to-night, my love, you are a great deal too feverish ; 
you may write to-morrow, if you will.” 

But on the morrow Cecilia was much better. The danger 
was completely arrested, the fever had left her. She did not 
write any letter, but lay in bed, hour after hour and day after 
day, thinking, always thinking of her husband’s imperfect 
discovery. 

One day a great impatience came over her. She must, she 
would, read those papers in that parcel once again. She asked 
to have a fire lit in her study, and tottering downstairs, weak 
and feeble, sat in the armchair by the fire and read Digby’s 
notes from beginning to end, not once, but twice, three, many 
times. That special note which related to the preparation of 
the remedy, to the means which Digby had employed for 
obtaining the tymph and then perfecting it for use, she read 
so often that she literally knew it by heart. 

Once more the parcel was sealed and put back into the 
drawer of the secretary, and Cecilia went back into her own 
room, 


302 


TEE MEDICINE LADT. 


In a week or two she was nearly as well as ever, but she had 
a slight, a very slight cough, and one day when Dr. Hobart, 
the local doctor, called, she asked him if he would mind examin- 
ing her lungs very carefully. 

“ You have just escaped pneumonia, but your lungs are all 
right now,” he said. 

“ I think it only fair to tell you, Dr. Hobart, that my 
mother died of consumption.” 

“ Well, well ; you are not going to die of consumption.” 

“ I earnestly hope not, but of course I have a tendency to 
the disease.” 

“ That, unluckily, goes without saying,” answered the doc- 
tor. “ The children of consumptive parents invariably — I 
may say without exception — inherit the taint. It is a great 
pity, for consumption, when it once declares itself, cannot be 
cured, it can at best only be alleviated.” 

“Of course, I know that,” replied Mrs. Digby. “Will you 
do me the favor of listening to my lungs very carefully, and 
telling me if, in your opinion, they are now' perfectly healthy ? 
In short, if, in your opinion, I have, at the present moment, 
not the slightest trace of tubercular disease ? ” 

Dr. Hobart laughed. 

“I will try and reassure your mind,” he said. “When 
speaking with you I sometimes forget that your husband was 
a man of remarkable scientific knowdedge. I overlook the fact 
that for many years you were the wife of one of the most 
brilliant doctors of the day.” 

“ Why do you say that ? How do I reveal my past history 
in my speech ? ” 

“ By making use of the w r ord ‘ tubercular.’ It is an expres- 
sion we doctors do not expect to drop from the lips of ordinary 
patients.” 

“ You perhaps forget,” said Mrs. Digby, turning a little 
pale, “ that my husband was a specialist — that he made 
tubercular disease his hobby ? ” 

“ I am scarcely likely to forget such a well knowm fact,” 
returned Dr. Hobart. “ There is not a man in the profession 
w ho was not aware of Digby’s genius, and who did not envy 
him his very remarkable gifts. Now r , let me listen to your 
lungs.” 

Dr. Hobart was young and fairly clever. After a brief 
examination he looked full at Mrs. Digby and hesitated. 

“ I w r ant the truth,” she said, fixing her eager eyes on his face. 


THE CURSE OF THE FATHERS. 


303 


“Of course you must have it,” lie replied. “You are not 
quite free from the taint. Your right lung is not absolutely 
clear, there is a want of elasticity in the apex, but the mischief 
is very slight at present. Must you live in this country for 
the winter? ” 

“ I don’t know. One thing keeps me in England.” 

“ What is that ? ” 

“ I am poor; my means are extremely limited.” 

“ You can live cheaply abroad. I should recommend you 
to go abroad.” 

“ Time enough to think of that,” said Cecilia impatiently. 
“ The mischief is very slight at present, is it not ? ” 

“ Very, very slight. It has arisen from the bad cold from 
which you have only just recovered, and it is possible, just 
possible, that in a month or two I may be able to give you a 
different verdict. I should be almost sure of this but for 
what you have told me about your parentage.” 

“ Thank you, Dr. Hobart. I am much obliged to you. I 
wished to know the truth, and you have told me.” 

“ It is an awful pity,” said Dr. Hobart, walking to the fire- 
place and standing with his back to it as he spoke, “that 
nothing has ever been done to arrest this tubercular formation. 
But I feel convinced that if anyone in the world could have 
discovered a cure for tuberculosis it would have been your 
husband, Mrs. Digby. As he lived and died without doing 
so, there is no use in lesser lights struggling to discover a 
remedy.” 

“No use whatever,” said Cecilia in a cold voice. 

The doctor wondered at her sudden change of manner; he 
shook hands with her and went away. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE CURSE OF THE FATHERS. 

Hope springs eternal in the human breast. This is a tru- 
ism confirmed by everyday experience. To each man and 
woman is given, among many hopes, one stronger, larger, 
more daring than the rest. It flits like a will-o’-the-wisp 
before the dazzled and longing eyes, now receding, growing 
pale, almost vanishing, now again looking large and brilliant 
on the horizon. One man’s hope means one thing, his 
brother’s the opposite. But for each, be he rich or poor, 


304 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


clever or stupid, high or low, there alwaj^s dangles before 
him, with more or less assurance on his part that he shall one 
day clasp it, that flickering, dazzling light, which, by its very 
nature, can never be held in a human hand. 

When the will-o’-the-wisp recedes so far into the distance 
that the man can no longer follow it, he either takes up 
another hope or he dies. To live, in the full sense that life 
implies, without hope is practically impossible. 

When Digby died and Cecilia went away, Phillips ex- 
perienced that starved sensation of heart which people go 
through when their will-o’-the-wisp shows them his erratic, 
changing, and shifting character. Phillips was rich and fairly 
popular. He was envied by lots of people, and hated, which 
comes to much the same thing, by others. But the fact that 
he was hedged in by the good things of life by no means 
prevented his aspiring to what he was pleased to consider the 
better things. He was ambitious, he hoped to win fame. He 
knew himself quite well enough to be certain that he could 
never devise an original scheme, that he could never write an 
original book, that his diagnosis must be based on that of 
wiser men, that he must take his experiences secondhand. 

He knew this fact perfectly well, he knew that the gods 
had been good to him on the whole, but none the less did he 
pine for that which was denied. He wanted to be talked 
over, to be praised, to be fussed about. He would have given 
half his wealth for half Digby’s originality. 

He made his plans with care, and every day it seemed to 
him more and more probable that he should win success. He 
hoped much from Cecilia ; he thought himself a clever ob- 
server of character, and he believed that he could play any 
tune he liked on that sensitive heart of hers. He felt morally 
certain that he could work on Cecilia’s fears, and get her to 
induce Digby to talk over his discovery with him. Once this 
was accomplished, he felt convinced that Digby would see 
his value, would make use both of his brains and his money, 
and then the great scientific discovery would be proclaimed 
to the world under the auspices of two proud names. 

Digby died, and Phillips’s will-o’-the-wisp seemed to vanish, 
never to return. But lo and behold ! once more the dancing, 
bewildering light appeared ; Phillips followed it over a sad 
quagmire of dishonor and moral cowardice. He all but 
grasped his treasure ; again it was wrenched from his grasp. 

For a time he literally abandoned hope, but as the weeks 


THE CURSE OF THE FATHERS. 


305 


wore on, the old thoughts and ideas returned to him, and he 
wondered what steps he could take to induce Cecilia to show 
him her husband’s papers. 

He had a certain fear of Cecilia now, for he was almost 
certain that she had read through his motive on the evening 
when she found him in her husband’s consulting room. 

He resolved, however, that his fears should not divert him 
from his desires. He thought it scarcely possible that a poor 
woman — and Cecilia was now very poor — could not be bought 
with gold. The only question was, how long the victim 
would take to yield, and how big the price he must pay for 
his victory. 

Having made up his mind, he wished to lose no time in 
seeing Mrs. Digby, for he did not conceal from himself the 
knowledge of a grave danger which might happen every day. 
Cecilia might, in ignorance of their true value, burn all her 
husband’s medical papers. This thought occurred to Phillips 
more than once, but, although it hastened his movements, it 
did not greatly terrify him ; he had the greatest possible faith 
in Mrs. Digby’s intellect, and he believed that only a thor- 
oughly silly woman could commit such a sacrilege. 

The autumn happened to be very fine that year. Month 
after month passed by without giving any trace of cold or 
winter. The leaves fell off the trees, it is true, and the days 
grew short, but the winds remained soft and balmy, and the 
late autumn flowers kept on blooming, unchecked by even a 
suspicion of frost. 

It was the correct thing to call this lovely season unhealthy, 
but in town and country alike, people enjoyed it. 

Cecilia had gone to her cottage in the middle of July. 
When the first three months were up, she took it for a longer 
period, and finally resolved to stay there altogether, for the 
present. 

On a certain warm and tranquil day in November, Phillips 
surprised his wife, as she was giving directions to her cook, 
by asking her to come and spend a day in the country with 
him. 

“ You haven’t seen your cousin Cecilia for a long time, 
he said ; “ this is Saturday, and I don’t expect any patients. 
Come and let us pay her a visit.” 

Helen started, and the color flew to her cheeks. 

“I shall be delighted to go to Cecilia,” she said. Her 
manner showed some slight hesitation. “ You know perfectly 


306 THE MEDICINE LADY. 

well, James, how fond I am of n^ cousin Cecilia, but 
the ” 

“ I have no time to listen to argument, Helen,” retorted 
Phillips. “ The day is beautiful, and your cousin will be, or 
ought to be, charmed to see us. Get your directions over, 
my dear, and be ready to catch the 11.45 from King’s 
Cross.” 

“ Ought we not to send Cecilia a telegram ? If we take 
that train, we shall arrive just at her lunch time. You know 
she has not a big house like ours, and she will not be ready 
for us.” 

“ Do you think Mrs. Digby would mind a trifle of that 
sort? There will be bread in the house, andbutter, and per- 
haps cheese. Who cares for what they eat ? Come, come, 
Helen, I look for the pleasure of taking your beautiful cousin 
by surprise.” 

Helen said nothing further. She admired her beloved 
James as much as ever, but she felt that she was every day 
becoming more and more a tool in his hands. Before her 
marriage there had been a certain amount of individuality 
about her ; that individuality had long ago been merged into 
his stronger and fiercer nature. 

She said nothing further now, but having finished her 
housekeeping for the day, went upstairs and got ready for 
her visit. 

Phillips and Helen caught the train to High Barnet ; in 
due time they arrived at the little station, and about ten 
minutes later found themselves standing in the rustic porch 
that surrounded Cecilia’s present home. Nance was playing 
in the garden : she was the first to see them. She uttered a 
glad cry of rapture, kissed Helen many times, and then taking 
one of James Phillips’s hands between both her own, squeezed 
it ecstatically. 

The best in Phillips once more leaped to the surface. He 
stooped down and kissed the child tenderly on her forehead. 

“ You have a look of your father, little one,” he said, and 
there was absolute feeling in his tone. 

Cecilia came out to welcome her guests, and they all went 
into the queer little wainscoted drawing room, whence a buzz 
of eager conversation penetrated into the garden. 

Cecilia was very glad to see Helen, and as she thought it 
absolutely impossible that Phillips could now do her any 
further harm, she allowed the antagonism she felt toward the 


THE CURSE OF THE FATHERS. 


307 


man to slumber, and did her utmost to give these two old 
friends a warm welcome. 

Nance went into the garden to pick flowers. From the 
flower garden she proceeded to the kitchen garden, where she 
had an earnest conversation with Miss Timmins and also 
with old Jones, the rheumatic gardener. The best of every- 
thing must appear on the luncheon table — the choicest 
flowers must be cut, and the late pears picked from the tree ; 
the russet apples must be polished up ; nothing, in Nance’s 
opinion, was too good or too rare to give to Helen and her 
husband. 

“ What a state of excitement you are in, child,” said Miss 
Timmins almost crossly ; “ one would think the benefactors 
of the race had arrived suddenly by train, instead of ” 

She stopped abruptly. Nance was giving her one of her 
full, earnest glances. 

“ I do not know what you mean by the benefactors of the 
race, Aunt Abigail,” she said. 

“Your father was one, child,” said the old lady. “There, 
don’t bother me ; if you must have the best, you must. I 
hope that man won’t make a fool of ” 

“ How funny you are, auntie. What can you mean ?” 

“Look here, Nancy, you are on no account to repeat my 
words.” 

“ Of course I won’t. I never tell tales.” 

“No, you are a good child ; you are your father’s good, 
brave little girl. Now, I am going to say something to you 
— I don’t like that man ! ” 

“ What man ? ” 

“ That friend of yours, James Phillips.” 

Nance opened her eyes wide in astonishment. 

“You don’t agree with me, Nancy ?” said Aunt Abigail. 
She was pulling the pears fiercely from the old pear tree as 
she spoke. 

“ Well, you see,” replied Nance in her slow voice, “it isn’t 
likely that I could. I love everybody, and most special I love 
Dr. Phillips. I love cousin Helen, too, but Hove Dr. Phillips 
best. No, I won’t ever tell what you said, Aunt Abigail. I 
am sorry that you can’t see with my eyes, that’s all.” 

She ran olf, and Miss Timmins muttered more angry words 
to herself as she arranged the pears and apples for dessert. 

The lunch was a success, and afterward Helen and Nance 
walked round the garden in company. This was Phillips’s 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


308 

opportunity. It was for a moment like this that he had given 
up a day in town, the possible chance of seeing patients, and 
the delights of an afternoon performance at one of the 
theaters. 

The moment Helen and Nance left them together he turned 
to Cecilia, and said in a voice that implied a great deal : 

“ I have much I want to say to you. Can you contrive 
that we shall be uninterrupted for half an hour or so ?” 

Cecilia, who had quite recovered from the severe cold 
which had prostrated her in October, stood by the open draw- 
ing-room window. 

“I have no excuse for not listening to you,” she said, turn- 
ing her bright, clear eyes full on his face. “ You know per- 
fectly well, however, that although we shall probably remain 
friends in the eyes of the world, in the eyes of your good 
wife, and my sweet child, yet our spirits are antagonistic.” 

“ I deny that,” retorted Phillips, “ we have an immensity 
in common. If we quarrel it is only because we are so much 
alike.” 

“ In my turn I deny that,” said Cecilia. She spoke with 
such emphasis that Phillips could not help biting his lips with 
vexation. 

“ The afternoon is lovely. Shall we go for a walk ? ” he 
asked. 

“That is just as you please. You and your wife are my 
guests. Helen and Nance are very happy going round the 
old-fashioned garden ; we may as well stand by this window 
as do anything else. Now, what have you got to say ? ” 

“ You often hear of Miss Sharpe, don’t you ? ” Cecilia col- 
ored vividly when Phillips said this, and a troubled, uneasy 
look flitted over her face. She was Phillips’s match in all re- 
spects, but she had not his power of keeping emotion out of 
her face. Her feelings, whether of pleasure or anger, were 
always reflected in her eyes, and trembled more or less round 
her lips. 

“ I do hear of Dorothy very often,” she said. Her tone was 
absolutely guarded. 

“ Then you are prepared for sad news,” said Phillips, still 
watching her intently. “ Miss Sharpe is seriously ill.” 

“ I know she is unwell.” 

“ It is sad,” continued Phillips, “ it is really tragic. Every- 
one who knows anything about her knows, too, that your hus- 
band kept her alive. His care was unremitting — he had such 


THE CURSE OF THE FATHERS. 


309 


good influence over her that mind acted on body, and the disease 
to which she is a victim remained quiescent under his manage- 
ment. Their is little doubt, little doubt whatever, that it has 
now started into fresh activity. She is seriously unwell. I 
met Lady Sharpe only yesterday ; she told me that not only 
was Dorothy ill, but that something else had occurred.” 

“ What was that? ’’ asked Cecilia. Her eagerness to know 
even got into her voice. 

“ She said,” continued Phillips, “that Dorothy had got a 
queer crank in her mind, that she refused, positively refused, 
to leave England. All the physicians, and more than one have 
lately seen her, have agreed in ordering her to go abroad with- 
out delay. She declares that if she goes anywhere it will be to 
Davos Platz. In the present state of her health, Davos Platz 
would not suit her at all. The consequence is that she posi- 
tively declares her intention of staying at home. The weather 
up to the present has been much in her favor, but let a chill 
come — let fogs visit London, or a touch of frost get into the 
air, and the mischief would be most serious. You ought to 
use your influence on her, Mrs. Digby. Your husband’s man- 
tle has fallen, to a great extent, on you. You ought to lose no 
time in advising Miss Sharpe not to sacrifice her life to a mere 
whim.” 

“I did not know of this,” answered Cecilia. “ I knew that 
Dorothy was not well, but I have not seen her for some 
months ; I have been ill lately myself.” 

“ 111 ! I didn’t know. Forgive me for saying that I never 
saw you look in better health.” 

“ I am very well indeed, now.” A proud yet troubled look 
filled Cecilia’s eyes. “ I believe myself,” she continued, “to 
be in excellent health, but in October I had a touch of pneu- 
monia.” 

“ Good Heavens, you don’t say so ! Pneumonia in your 
case might be serious.” 

“Judging from my face, Dr. Phillips, do you believe my 
attack to have been serious ? ” 

“ No, you look the picture of health. Your complexion is 
clear, but not too clear ; you are pale, of course, but then you 
never had much color.” 

“ Enough. I am well ; we won’t discuss my peculiarities 
of appearance. Now to talk about Dorothy ; your news has 
troubled me greatly, I must write to her.” 

“ I am glad to hear you say that. One reason why I came 


310 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


down here to-day was to tell you about her, for I felt abso- 
lutely certain that you would do your best for her.” 

“ My best is very, very little ; still I must urge her to obey 
the doctors’ orders.” 

“It is madness, doubtless, to go against the profession,” re- 
torted Phillips, with a slightly sardonic smile. “ By the way, 
rumor tells us that Miss Sharpe’s state of health is not alto- 
gether due to weakness of body — she has had an unfortunate 
love affair. The thing is no secret, Mrs. Digby, so you need 
not start. All the world knows that Frank Crichton is head 
over ears in love with her, and that she won’t look at him.” 

“ She could not marry him in her present state of health,” 
said Cecilia, in a very low voice. 

“ Every lady would not be so scrupulous,” replied Phillips. 
“ Well, she has undoubtedly refused him, and he goes about 
with a shadow on his face. He is a right good fellow — clever, 
too. We constantly see him, now that he lives so close.” 

“ I am truly sorry for them both,” said Cecilia, clasping her 
hands; “the story is bitterly sad.” 

“ It is sad,” said Phillips, “ yet not so sad as it might be. 
The saddest thing of all would have been this: Miss Sharpe, who 
has a very strong tendency to consumption, being less scrupu- 
lous than she is, would have said ‘Yes ’to Crichton’s proposal. 
They would have married, and her health would doubtless 
have improved. For a time she would have enjoyed better 
health, but in a few years, when she was the mother of several 
children, she would have utterly broken down and died of 
rapid consumption. Her children would have inherited the 
disease. Think of the catastrophe. Crichton is well out of it. 
The disappointment of the present is nothing to the wholesale 
slaughter that would have taken place had Miss Sharpe been 
less conscientious.” 

“ She could not have married, of course,” said Cecilia, turn- 
ing pale ; “ still I am sorry for her.” 

“ You have reason to be sorry. She is a good and beautiful 
woman, and her days are numbered.” 

“ Oh, don’t say so ! ” 

“ My dear lady, surely you know enough about the course 
of tubercular disease to be well assured on that point. Dor- 
othy Sharpe is not long for this world.” 

“ Dr. Phillips, your news gives me terrible pain. What 
about her father and mother ? ” 

Phillips shrugged his shoulders. 


THE CURSE OF THE FATHERS. 


311 


“You may well ask,” he retorted; “they must bear the 
shock as other people have done before them. The taint which 
their child suffers from must have been in the blood of one, 
perhaps both, of them ; they must answer for the consequences. 
It is one more illustration of the time-honored fact that the 
sins of the fathers are visited on the children.” 

“You cannot call consumption a sin.” 

“ Well, no. We will diverge from the original text — the 
curse of the fathers is visited on the children. Mrs. Digby, you 
look pale. Are you cold ? Is it wise to stand so long by this 
open window ? ” 

“ I will come out with you and take a walk,” said Cecilia. 
“Your news gives me deep distress ; I must walk off the im- 
patience which overpowers me.” 

Cecilia put her head out of the window and called to 
Nance. 

“Ask Cousin Helen if she would not like to take a walk,” 
she cried ; “ there is a beautiful view from the top of the hill.” 

“ Oh, mother ! do let us go into the Hadley Woods,” 
called back Nance’s sweet, high, shrill tones. 

Her gay laugh was also borne on the breeze. Cecilia went 
out, and bent over the child and kissed her. 

“ My sweet, my treasure ! ” she whispered low in her ears. 

Helen and Nance walked on in front ; Phillips still retained 
his position by Cecilia’s side. 

“ Little Nance also looks well,” he said. “You did right 
to leave London ; the country air suits her. Of course, Mrs. 
Digby, I need not too strongly impress upou you the fact 
that the child’s life is frail ; you will probably have to take 
her to a warmer climate in a year or two.” 

“I will do everything that is possible for Nance,” replied 
Cecilia ; “ but you forget, Dr. Phillips, that I am no longer 
a rich woman — my means are extremely limited.” 

“ Oh ! yes, yes, that grieves me. Nance is the sort of child 
who requires luxury — the softest living, the most unremitting 
care ; she ought to winter in one place and spend her 
summers in another. As to her education, if she were my 
child, I should have her taught nothing.” 

“And there you would injure her,” said Cecilia. “Her 
active brain must have food. No one knew that better than 
her father ; she is too imaginative, and, if I may dare say 
such a thing, too tender-hearted. Her mind, as well as her 
body, needs any amount of bracing,” 


312 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“Yes,” returned Phillips, after a pause, “you are a wise 
mother ; you will doubtless do what is best for your child ; 
all the same, I wish you were better off.” 

“You are kind, but I have got enough money for my 
present needs.” 

“ Your income does not reach £200 a year.” 

“ That is a fact ; but when one’s wants are few, expenses 
are proportionately small. As long as Nance is well the sub- 
ject of money does not trouble me in the least.” 

“ You would not refuse wealth, if it came in your way, for 
the child’s sake ? ” 

“ If it came in my way, but it isn’t likely to.” 

“ Will you listen to me without getting very angry ? I want 
to say something.” 

“ I will listen to you ; I cannot possibly say that I shall not 
get angry.” 

“ Feel as angry as you like in your heart, only listen to me 
to the end.” 

Cecilia quickened her footsteps ; she and Phillips now over- 
took Helen and Nance. Presently they got ahead of them, 
presently far ahead. When a considerable distance was put 
between Cecilia and her child, she turned and looked full at 
Phillips. 

“ You had better speak,” she said. “ I know by your 
manner that you are going to say something extremely 
distasteful, but it is out of my power to prevent your saying 
it.” 

“You always were a unique woman, Mrs. Digby. The pro- 
posal I have to make would not be distasteful to other people 
circumstanced as you are. I want to buy something from you 
at a price.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Cecilia, the color flashing into her face, the old 
loveliuess gleaming in her eyes, and giving her that fleeting 
fascination which no one could see unmoved. “ I may as well 
tell you at once that I have nothing to sell ; you have come 
to the wrong market.” 

“ Excuse me, you have something to sell. I will buy your 
husband’s medical notes from you — all his medical notes— for 
almost any sum you like to mention.” 

“ There is no sum in the world, no amount of gold on earth, 
that would compensate me for the loss of my husband’s mecU 
ical notes.” 

“ They are no use to you whatever,” 


THE CURSE OF THE FATHERS. 


313 


“ That is for me to decide.” 

Cecilia resumed her rapid walking. 

“ Do you mean to tell me,” continued Phillips ,' *" that you 
are going to keep your husband’s valuable papers locked up 
in a dark closet? He has done much to aid suffering human- 
ity. Are you going to be both cruel and wicked ? I can 
make use of his notes. I am willing, abundantly willing, to 
compensate you with money for their loss.” 

“ Suffice it, Dr. Phillips. There is no use whatever in pro- 
longing this conversation. My husband would not wish you 
to have any notes of his. That fact ends the matter ; you 
must see this for yourself.” 

Phillips’s brow grew dark. He had the unpleasant sensa- 
tion of a man who, over a game of chess, sees checkmate al- 
most inevitable. Hope was not, however, dead within him. 
He looked around him, and tried to discover a move of suffi- 
cient dexterity to enable him to recover his lost position. 

“ I understand your scruples,” he said, in his gentlest voice. 
“ It is possible that I may yet be able to show you myself, 
and the integrity of my motives, in such a light that the 
prejudice you now feel against me will vanish, and you will 
allow me to complete the valuable work which your husband 
began.” 

“ Never ! ” said Cecilia, with passion. “ Don’t nourish that 
hope in your breast, Dr. Phillips, for I can assure you it will 
never be gratified.” 

“Enough,” said Phillips, half raising his hand. “You 
speak cruel words, for I have in every particular tried to be 
your friend. You cannot, endeavor as you may, deprive me 
of hope. A day will come ” 

“ The day you expect will never come,” said Cecilia. “ I 
cannot be too emphatic on that point. My husband did not 
wish you to have anything to do with his secret. I may as 
well tell you that I did speak of your strong desire to him on 
that dreadful evening when his fatal accident occurred. It 
would not be right to repeat his words, but the substance of 
them was this: you and he were not sympathetic spirits, and 
only sympathetic spirits could work such a discovery as his 
with any chance of success.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Phillips, in a triumphant voice, “ you have at 
last admitted that there is a discovery. That admission is 
quite enough for to-day. Thank you very much ; that, and 
the fact that you have not been mad enough to burn your 


314 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


husband’s papers, gives me a feeling of assurance. I will not 
trouble you any further in the matter at present.” 

Cecilia bit her lips ; she was much vexed with herself for 
having made the admission she had done, but there was no 
help for it now. With a strong effort she turned the conver- 
sation into a different channel. Phillips was quick to see her 
design, and he aided her with all the grace that was part of 
his complex character. 

Helen heard Cecilia’s laugh as they walked over the brow 
of the hill. Nance skipped along with a glad look on her 
face. 

“Mother doesn’t often laugh now,” she said. “ Do you hear 
her ? I am so very glad to hear her, aren’t you ?” 

“ Yes, darling,” said Helen, stooping down and kissing the 
child. 


CHAPTER VII. 

CHANGES. 

Phillips’s report with regard to Dorothy Sharpe was in 
every respect the truth. From the day she had seen Dr. 
Arbuthnot her spirits had flagged and her feeble strength 
had grown feebler. Her hitherto sweet temper became capri- 
cious, her appetite failed, and, as a natural consequence, her 
health began rapidly to decline. 

It was impossible any longer for Lady Sharpe to conceal 
the fact from herself that Dorothy, her one treasure, was ill. 
All the symptoms that had so alarmed this poor mother long 
ago were once more developed, and with them came a train of 
new experiences for the unhappy and anxious woman. In 
the old times Dorothy’s mind was gay, even if her body 
suffered. Dorothy’s smile was brightest when the hectic 
fever burnt in her cheeks, and the strange, pathetic luster of 
ill health brightened her beautiful eyes. Now, Dorothy was 
fretful. In other words, she was difficult to manage. For 
some reason she shut her heart against her mother — she be- 
came reserved. She refused to speak either of her health or 
of her feelings. Any chance of an engagement between her 
and Frank Crichton seemed absolutely at an end. When he 
came to the house she refused to see him, and Lady Sharpe 
could not conceal from this anxious lover that her daughter 
was seriously unwell. 

i( Why don’t you take her abroad ? ” asked Crichton, 


CHANGES. 


315 


“ It is madness to keep her in this climate during the winter 
months. If Digby were alive you know perfectly well that 
he would have ordered her to the Engadine, or at least he 
would have ordered her out of England a couple of months 
ago.” 

“ That is what makes Sir Probyn and myself so very un- 
happy,” said Lady Sharpe. “ Dorothy, who during all the 
past years of her life was the sweetest and most docile crea- 
ture, has suddenly taken a whim into her head, and refuses 
point-blank to leave Cadogan Square. It is impossible to 
alter her determination without using grim force. Dorothy 
is no longer a child — she is two-and-twenty years of age. 
Were she a child, the matter could be easily managed, but 
being a young woman we must consult her inclinations.” 

“ But this is madness. Could not I see her ? Miss Sharpe 
is reasonable ; I am persuaded that if I appealed to her rea- 
son, she would see the folly of putting an end to her own 
life.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Crichton,” exclaimed the poor mother, clasping 
her hands in despair, “ if you would only use your influence 
in persuading Dorothy of the necessity of this step, her father 
and I would be forever grateful to you ; but what is to be 
done ? she refuses to see you ! I know the poor child is 
very much attached to you, but she doesn’t think it right to 
marry you in her present state of health, and therefore she 
will not see you when you come to the house.” 

“ I will not worry her on the subject of our marriage until 
she is better. Can you assure her of this ? ” 

“ I will try,” said Lady Sharpe. “I will go to her now. 
Stay where you are, and I will try and persuade her to come 
down and talk to you.” 

Lady Sharpe left the room, and Crichton went and stood 
by one of the windows. lie was a very ardent and devoted 
lover, he would have taken Dorothy to his heart with all her 
weakness and illness, thinking nothing of the future, and only 
desiring to add to the happiness of the frail life he so loved, 
but Dorothy herself was resolved. He honored her for her 
determination, and respected her scruples, but a cloud hung 
over him day and night. His heart suddenly beat quickly, he 
heard a step on the stairs, the drawing-room door was slowly 
opened and the young girl came in. 

There was a great change in her face. Six weeks had 
altered her as completely as six years might have done. She 


316 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


was perceptibly thinner, her eyes were now almost too large 
for her small face, there were dark shadows under them. 
The lovely rose tint of her cheeks had given place to pallor. 
She came swiftly across the room, and standing Crichton’s 
side, put out her small hand and let him grasp it in both his 
own. 

“ Mother said you wished to see me, Frank,” said Dorothy. 

“I do,” he said. “You know how much I wish to see you 
every day, and all day long ; but I am not going to worry 
you on that point now ; I want you to go to the Engadine, I 
want you to go anywhere out of England. If you are tired 
of the Engadine, why not try Egypt ? ” 

“I would rather stay at home. Can you not see that? 
My father and mother utterly fail to understand me, but I 

did think, Frank, that you — that you ” Dorothy’s eyes 

6lowly filled with tears. 

“ What is it, my darling ? ” said the young man. “ Listen 
to me, Dolly. Why should we be apart when we might be 
together ? ” 

“We cannot be together,” she exclaimed ; “I will not be 
your wife.” 

“ No, I will not urge it while you are so ill, but may I come 
to see you ? Can we not be engaged to each other ? ” 

“We can’t, it would be useless.” 

“ Dorothy, are you very much worse than you were six 
weeks ago ? ” 

“ I feel worse ; I don’t think I am sorry. The desire to live 
has left me ; I do not know that I am really more ill than I 
have often been before, but I never felt utterly indifferent to 
life until now.” 

“ Get engaged to me, and life will once more look charm- 
ing.” 

“You are unfair to me, Frank. You promised mother that 
you would not worry me on this point if I consented to see 
you.” 

“ I will never speak to you again on the subject until you 
give me leave, if in your turn you will make me a promise.” 

“ What is that ? ” 

“ Let me come to see you every day.” 

“ No, no ! It would be useless. You cannot understand. 
It is possible for a girl to try to be strong, and yet feel weak and 

— and tempted. You cannot understand Oh! I do wish I 

could see Cecilia Digby ; no one else knows what I suffer.” 


CHANGES. 


317 


Dorothy burst into feeble tears. Crichton felt more and 
more alarmed. He took her hand and led her to the 
sofa. 

Lady Sharpe came in ; Crichton looked at her and shook 
his head. 

When he was leaving the house, Lady Sharpe followed him 
downstairs. 

“ Miss Sharpe is decidedly worse. You ought to send for 
Dr. Arbuthnot at once.” 

“ Arbuthnot ? Is he the best man ? ” asked Lady Sharpe. 

“ Undoubtedly, now that Digby is removed. Of course, 
there is no man of any weight in the profession who holds 
Digby’s modern ideas, but Arbuthnot is extremely clever and 
kind, and in the present state of Miss Sharpe’s health you 
ought to see him.” 

“ I will ask him to call to-morrow morning,” said Lady 
Sharpe. 

Dorothy had never mentioned to her mother the fact of her 
having visited Dr. Arbuthnot with Mrs. Digby. 

She was sitting in the drawing room the next morning 
when the physician entered. She happened to be alone ; her 
mother had not yet come downstairs. He came up and spoke 
to her as an old friend : 

“ Miss Sharpe, I thought you were out of England six 
weeks ago.” 

“ Dr. Arbuthnot,” she exclaimed impulsively, “ Mother 
will be down in a moment ; I beg, I entreat of you not to 
tell her that I went to see you with Mrs. Digby.” 

The physician raised his eyebrows in astonishment. After 
a very brief pause, he took one of Dorothy’s hands and gave 
it a comforting pressure. 

“ I will keep your secret,” he said. “ Be calm, don’t excite 
yourself.” 

Lady Sharpe came into the room, and the necessary ex- 
amination of Dorothy’s lungs took place. Dr. Arbuthnot, 
according to the fashion of physicians of his class, gave a 
guarded opinion in the presence of the patient. On one 
point alone he was emphatic : 

“ You must leave England,” he said ; “you must go abroad, 
you must get all the influence that sunshine can bring to bear 
upon your lungs, without delay.” 

“ I will not leave England,” she repeated. 

“ That is her cry, morning, noon, and night,” said Lady 


318 


TEE MEDICINE LADY. 


Sharpe. “ It is incomprehensible. Dorothy has been one of 
the best girls up to the present ” 

Dorothy began to sob feebly. 

“ I know I am dying,” she exclaimed. “ Why should 
everyone worry me? I hate the Riviera ; I hate foreign life. 
If I have only a few months to live, may I not stay in my 
own home ? If j^ou will cease to worry me on that matter, 
mother, I will promise to be very good. Dr. Arbuthnot, do 
take my part. Don’t you think that mind reacts on body ? 
If I am very unhappy away from home, and if I am very 
much happier at home, don’t you think that fact about 
balances matters ? I am positively convinced that an unhappy 
mind makes the body more tired and weak and weary than 
anything else.” 

“ There is some truth in that, young lady ; but why should 
your mind be so unhappy ? You are full of morbid ideas, 
evidently ; we must get at the root of them.” 

“ I am unhappy,” she answered ; “ but my greatest dread 
at present is to go out of England, and to find myself very ill, 
perhaps dying, in a foreign land.” 

“ Well, well, it would be impossible to press any point that 
you felt so strongly against,” said the physician. “Lady 
Sharpe, I must have a little talk with you as to the best 
means of helping your daughter to get quite well again. 
Shall we go downstairs for a moment or two ? ” 

“ Is she very, very ill ? ” exclaimed Lady Sharpe the 
moment they were alone. 

“ It is impossible for me to conceal the truth from you, my 
dear madam. Miss Sharpe has got tubercular disease of both 
lungs. The progress of the disease is not rapid ; I see no 

increase ” He stopped ; he remembered that he had 

promised Dorothy not to reveal the fact that she had already 
seen him. “ What makes me so uneasy with regard to your 
daughter,” he continued, “ is her evident unrest and pertur- 
bation of mind. She has something preying on her spirits. 
Until you can get at that, nothing can be done to alleviate 
her bodily symptoms.” 

“ She has taken a most unreasonable dislike to leaving this 
house,” said Lady Sharpe. 

“I can see that. You must set her mind at rest on that 
point immediately. Until she is in a different frame of mind 
she must not leave England. Let her drive out in a close 
carriage. Your rooms are large ; the weather happens to be 


CHANGES. 


319 


particularly mild ; give her all the change of air you possibly 
can from room to room in this house. Assure her that she 
shall never leave it until she herself wishes to do so. By 
degrees, as she becomes quite calm and happy, suggest to her 
the possibility of her going to Torquay ; but this for the 
future. Above all things, don’t worry her. As soon as I 
leave, go up and tell her that, after talking the matter over 
with you, I have decided that it would be very bad for her to 
leave home. Is there no friend whom she loves, who would 
come and stay with her, to help to cheer her ? ” 

“ The only person she seems to care about is the wife of 
poor Dr. Digby.” 

“ Ah, a nice woman ! I happen to know her. Get her to 
come, by all means.” 

“ I will see what I can do.” 

“There is another thing, Lady Sharpe. You will forgive 
me for being so very plain, but your daughter’s mind is so 
evidently troubled that I must think of all those matters 
which so often form a prominent part in the affairs of the 
young. I allude to love. Have you any reason to suppose 
that Miss Sharpe is unhappy about an affair of the heart ? ” 

A very slow smile crept into Lady Sharpe’s face. 

“ It is right to confide in one’s physician,” she answered. 
“ Dorothy has scruples about engaging herself to a man who 
is devotedly attached to her, and who is in every respect 
worthy of her affection.” 

“ She grieves for him, then ? ” 

“ Unquestionably she does.” 

“ Oh, that is bad ! I have no doubt that is at the root of 
the mischief ; that accounts for her dislike to leaving Eng- 
land. Lady Sharpe, why not permit the engagement ? ” 

“ I am powerless in the matter, Dr. Arbuthnot. Dorothy 
herself is the arbiter of her own fate. Nothing will induce 
her to become engaged to Mr. Crichton. Ah ! what have I 
done ? I ought not to mention names.” 

“ You are safe with me, my dear madam ; I know Crichton. 
He is an excellent fellow. Would you permit me to speak to 
him on the subject of his attachment to Miss Sharpe ? ” 

Lady Sharpe hesitated. 

“ I doubt if it would do any good,” she said ; “ Dorothy is 
really the one to decide, and she has made up her mind that 
it would be wrong to marry. You agree with her on that 
point, don’t you, Dr. Arbuthnot ? ” 


320 


TEE MEDICINE LADY. 


D/*. Arbuthnot paused before he replied. His keen, bright 
eyes took in at a glance the expectant, wistful, agonized ex- 
pression on the mother’s face. 

“ It will break her heart, but she will bear up,” he mur- 
mured, under his breath. 

“ Will you permit me to be quite plain with you ? ” he said 
aloud. 

“ Yes, yes,” she replied. “ God knows any truth would be 
better than this uncertainty.” 

“ I will be quite plain with you,” continued the physician. 
“ Your daughter will never marry, Lady Sharpe. In her case, 
it is not a question of marriage, or of long life. Won’t you sit 
down ? This chair is comfortable. The thing for us to con- 
sider in her case is how best to prolong a dying life.” 

“ God help me ! ” said Lady Sharpe. “ My only child. I 
thought this blow would have been averted. God help her 
father and me ! ” 

The physician paused again. 

“ My duty is most painful,” he said. “ Only in the interests 
of my patient would I pierce your heart. I must be frank 
with you. Miss Sharpe will never be well again, but at the 
same time she may live for one or two years. That will alto- 
gether depend on whether her mind is at rest or not.” 

“ She thinks herself that she is dying. Oh, my darling ! 
my sweet darling ! ” 

“ It is quite likely that in a day or two, indeed at any mo- 
ment, your daughter’s mind may develop a new phase — she 
may be quite as sure that she will live as she now is that she 
will die. This bright, hopeful phase will be good for her, and 
will be the best possible means of keeping the disease at bay. 
I will speak to Crichton, if you will permit me; there is, of 
course, no question of marriage, but an engagement between 
the two might do Miss Sharpe an infinitude of good.” 

Dr. Arbuthnot went away, and Lady Sharpe went slowly 
back to the drawing room. 

Mothers can do a great deal — they can even tread on red- 
hot coals without shrinking. Each step may press a sword, 
but the face of the woman whose child’s life hangs in the 
balance betrays no sign. 

Lady Sharpe looked even cheerful when she went into the 
drawing room. She came up to Dorothy and kissed her. 
“ Well, my love,” she said, sitting down and taking her 
daughter’s hand, “ I am glad to be able to tell you that Dr. 


CHANGES. 


321 


Arbuthnot quite agrees with your own verdict about your- 
self.” 

Dorothy was lying back in a deep chair ; she raised her 
eyes languidly, and fixed them on her mother. 

“ My verdict on myself,” she said. “ I forget — oh, yes ! I 
said I was dying. He agrees with me ? Then, mother, if I am 
dying, no one need worry me again about an impossible cure.” 

“ My darling, you must listen to me quite calmly. Dr. 
Arbuthnot agreed with quite a different part of your verdict 
about yourself. He said that you had such a strong dislike 
to leaving England that it would be wrong to worry you any 
further on the matter. You are to stay here, Dorothy; here 
in your own home. The season happens to be unusually mild; 
we will go out together, my dear, and we will have friends to 
come, to see us. We will make ourselves quite happy, and 
you shall not be teased any more, my darling, about plans 
that only worry you.” 

“ Come and sit on the sofa, mother,” said Dorothy. They 
walked across the great drawing room. The mother sat down 
first, and then the girl pressed up close to her, and laid her 
head on her shoulder. 

“ I feel quite rested,” she said. “ I don’t want to go abroad; 
I was too tired even to think of it.” 

“Well,” said Lady Sharpe, “we will forget the subject. 
What can I do now to amuse you ? Are there any friends 
you would like to see ? ” 

“No one to-day, I think. Let me hold your hand and 
dream.” 

Dorothy closed her eyes; her mother sat without moving a 
muscle. The little hand in hers felt hot, the rapid pulse in 
the wrist beat against the mother’s arm. Lady Sharpe, as 
long as she lived, never forgot the agony of that enforced 
stillness ; her heart felt as if it was pressing against an iron 
band. Dorothy had really sunk into a brief doze. She 
opened her eyes in a few minutes, raised her head, looked at 
her mother and kissed her. 

“I am glad we are not going abroad,” she said, “but we 
won’t see a lot of people. I want us just to have a cozy time 
by ourselves.” 

“But the doctor said you ought to be cheered, my dearest.” 

“ The only person I want to see is Cecilia Digby, but when 
we last wrote to her she was ill. I should like her to come 
and see me, but no one else.” 


322 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“ She is probably quite well again. I will write to her at 
once. Mrs. Digby and Nance might come and pay a visit 
here. What do you say, Dorothy ? ” 

“ I should like it, mother dear.” 

At the very moment that Lady Sharpe was writing her 
letter, Phillips and his wife were taking leave of Cecilia and 
Nance at High Barnet Station. 

The doctor and his wife went back to town, and Cecilia and 
her little daughter returned to their ivy-covered cottage. Miss 
Timmins met them on the steps. 

“ My dear,” she said to Cecilia, “ Dr. Hobart has called to 
see you. He expressed surprise when he heard that you 
were out so late.” 

“ There is nothing whatever to fear in my being out late,” 
said Cecilia, in a bright tone. 

“ Dr. Hobart does not agree with you. He expressed dis- 
tinct disapproval at your imprudence. I must say, however, 
that you look well. You have completely lost your cough, 
and you are not so thin as you were before your illness.” 

“ I feel in perfect health,” answered Mrs. Digby. 

She paused on the doorstep ; the door of the cottage was 
open behind her ; she stood facing the garden. Her eyes had 
a dreamy, far away expression. Nance, who w r atched every 
look on her mother’s face, glanced at her with affectionate 
inquiry. 

“ The sun is just setting, mother,” she said. “ Do you see 
over there, where all that bright glow is ? ” She pointed to 
the mist with her little slender hand. “ I like to look at the 
sun setting, for I know the golden gates are somewhere near,” 
she continued. 

Cecilia bent down and kissed the child. 

“My little Nance!” she said with fervor. “My precious 
little Nance ! ” 

“ Mother,” said the child, “ we haven’t had a talk about 
father for a long, long time. I have thought of heaps to tell 
you ; lots of fresh things have come to me. He has done a 
whole quantity of wonderful, beautiful things since the last 
time we spoke about him, and he often comes to the gates 
and looks down into the world, and he sees — mother, mother, 
what is the matter ? ” 

“ Nothing, Nance. What do you mean ? ” 

“ I can’t bear it, mother ; it makes me cry to see you with 
that look on your face. I am so glad when you laugh, and 


CHANGES. 


323 


when you smile I feel ever so happy, but that look hurts 
me; it is like a sword going into me. Mother, mother, don’t ! ” 

“ My dearest, your imagination is running away with you. 
You must not excite yourself in that fashion.” 

Cecilia dropped down on her knees and clasped Nance to 
her heart. 

“ There, dearest,” she said, “ there is nothing wrong.” 

“ Only my heart aches, mother.” 

“ Why should it ache, my sweet ? ” 

“ I think — I think — may I really tell you ? ” 

“ Yes, of course you may, 'my darling.” 

“ I want so badly to talk about father.” 

“ Yes, Nance.” 

“ You are trembling again, mother.” 

“I — it’s all right, Nance.” 

“ It isn’t, mother. I can see through you, and that makes 
me unhappy. There is something the matter with you, and 
the thought of it pierces into my heart. You won’t let me 
talk about father to you lately. I have tried often, often, 
and you won’t let me go on. You always stop me, and you 
always grow pale, and your hand always trembles. What is 
the matter, mother? What is wrong?” 

“ Nothing whatever, Nancy. I have been weak and ill of 
late, and the subject moves me very much. I did not know, 
my little girl, that I was giving you great pain. Come, it is 
an exquisite evening ; father seems nearer when we are out- 
side, does he not? We are more in God’s world when bricks 
and mortar do not surround us ; we will walk round the 
garden and we will ” 

“ Talk,” said Nance joyfully. “ I will tell you some of my 
thoughts. The nearer you get to God, the more beautiful 
everything is. That is why father is so happy now — he is 
close to God, he is in the same house with God. When he 
goes out he walks in God’s garden — that is why he is so very 
happy. Mother, may I really tell you of what is in my 
heart ? ” 

“Yes, Nance, I will listen to you ; hold my hand, sweet.” 

“Last night,” continued the child, “I had a dream. While 
I slept I saw father. In my dream I did not think that he was 
dead : he looked just as he always looked, only his face had 
a different expression — I can’t quite explain the look, but I’d 
like to try.” 

The child paused for a minute. 


324 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“ The first thing about his face,” she continued, speaking 
with a solemnity almost unnatural in one so young, “ was a 
look that people don’t wear in this world. I never saw any- 
one with that look except father himself once or twice. He 
had it for about half a minute when he was telling me about 
the golden gates, and the end of the road, and the bright 
time at the other side. The look never stayed, it came and it 
went — it came and it went as quick as lightning, but in my 

dream, mother, it stayed — and ” 

“Aunt Abigail is calling me, Nance; I must go,” said 
Cecilia. “ Kiss me, sweet, first. Your thoughts are lovely, 
lovely. I will listen to more presently. Run just once around 
the garden, and then come in.” 

Cecilia kissed the child with great fervor, and ran into the 
house. Nance stood still in the middle of the garden path. 

“ That is always the way, lately,” she said to herself. 
“There is something the matter with my mother; she is 
unhappy when I speak about father.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

BEAUTIFUL LIFE. 

Cecilia ran quickly until a projection of the house hid 
her little daughter from her view. Then she stood still, 
clasping and unclasping her hands with the action of one in 
great mental pain. 

“ I cannot draw back now,” she said to herself. “ I crossed 

the Rubicon when I ” She paused again, her troubled 

eyes sought the ground. “ Forward now ! ” she said to her- 
self; “I must have courage and go on.” 

She entered the house, and went into the little oak-lined 
parlor, where Miss Timmins was busily preparing tea. 

“ Now that’s right, Cecil,” said the old lady; “you have 
just come in time to help me. The fire is nice and clear, and 
we want some toast made. I hope to goodness you didn’t 
leave that child in the garden ? ” 

“She is all right,” said Cecilia. “ The air is perfectly dry 
and mild. She won’t come to any harm ; you may be sure of 
that.” 

“ Fiddlestick ! ” exclaimed the old lady. “ A delicate 
child, too ! ” 

She dropped her own toasting fork and ran to the window. 


BEAUTIFUL LIFE. 


325 


“ Look at her, Cecilia ! ” she exclaimed. u Sweet little 
creature ! She is walking along slowly, looking up at the 
stars, and singing softly to herself. She’s the best and 
dearest child I ever came across, and as like that good doctor 
as child can be. Now, what’s the matter? Oh, I declare she’s 
gone! I never met anyone like Cecilia Digby now, all jumps 
and starts, and nervousness, and running away if you even 
look at her. Kissing and petting Nance one moment fit to 
break your heart, and the next avoiding her. Laughing quite 
gayly one minute, and down in the very depths the next. And 
yet, with it all, purposeful, too, and with a light in her eyes as 
if she was hugging a glad secret to herself. She’s in good 
health, too ; no doubt whatever about that. A few weeks 
ago I was anxious about her; she had got over the inflamma- 
tion of the lungs — a fiddlestick for its new name, I can’t bring 
my tongue round it — but she hacked and she barked and she 
worried my life out. There’s a great difference in coughs — 
there’s the throat cough, and the chest cough, and the stomach 
cough. Mine is the throat cough ; it’s forty years now since 
it began, aud it will follow me to the grave. I’d be lonely 
without it, I really should; if I didn’t hack at night I 
wouldn’t know myself. But Cecilia’s was a chest cough, and 
that strikes on the heart with a blow every time you listen to 
it. But it’s gone; I haven’t heard it for a fortnight or three 
weeks. Praise the Lord for His mercies, I say — there’s well 

known to be consumption in the Is that you, Nance? 

Come in, my dearie, come in to your supper.” 

“ Where’s my mother ? ” asked the child. She stood in the 
doorway, a little, pale figure in her black dress. There was a 
faint color on her cheeks, her gray eyes looked wistful. 

“ 1 suppose your mother’s upstairs, pet,” said Miss Timmins. 
“ You shout to her from the foot of the stairs.” 

“ No, I won’t,” said Nance. “ Mother doesn’t like to be 
disturbed when she is busy. Shall I tell you about a dream I 
had last night, Aunt Abigail?” 

“ Now, my darling, you know that I don’t believe in 
dreams.” 

“ Father did. I often told him my dreams. He used to 
say, ‘ That was a beautiful thought that came to you in the 
night, Nance.’ What’s the matter, Aunt Abigail?” 

“ There, child, I have spoilt that egg; I meant to prepare it 
for your mother’s supper.” 

“ Mother doesn’t care what she eats, lately.” 


326 


THE MEDICINE LAD 7. 


“ I know; I wish we could give her a good shaking between 

us, you and I. She wants Oh, there you are, Cecilia ! 

Nance and 1 were just talking about you. Why, heaven pre- 
serve us, dear! you are not going out again? Well, of all 
the mad people ! ” 

“ I am going to see Dr. Hobart, Aunt Abigail. I shall not 
be very long away. Eat a good supper, Nancy, dearest. I 
shall be sure to be back in time to go on with ‘ The Tangle- 
wood Tales.’ ” 

The next moment Cecilia had left the room and was walk- 
ing along the country road that led to Dr. Hobart’s house. 
It was a humble little cottage, for the local doctor was blessed 
with a very moderate income. Cecilia was fortunate enough 
to find him at home, and was shown at once into his consult- 
ing room. 

“ I heard you had called to see me,” she began, “ so to save 
you the trouble of repeating your visit, I came to you.” 

“It would not have been the least trouble to come again, I 
can assure you, Mrs. Digby.” 

“ You are very good to say so. Miss Timmins tells me 
that you were displeased when you found that I was out of 
doors so late in the afternoon.” 

“ Well, can you wonder ? In the state of your lungs ” 

“ That is just the point, my lungs feel quite well.” 

Dr. Hobart permitted himself to breathe a very gentle sigh. 
Then he glanced at the woman opposite to him. She wore 
her widow’s dress and bonnet ; her long veil was swept back 
from her pale face. 

Dr. Hobart was sensible, worthy, commonplace, but he was 
also susceptible. Cecilia was a beautiful woman. He had 
never seen anyone like her ; she had the sort of charm which 
tantalizes while it allures. Dr. Hobart felt his position a 
cruel one. It was painful to have to tell this lovely woman, 
in the prime of her youth, that there was little or no hope of 
her escaping that scourge which carries so many victims to an 
early and unwished-for grave. 

After a brief delay, he put on his professional tone and be- 
gan to say smooth things. 

Cecilia interrupted him with impatience : 

“ I know what you would tell me,” she said ; “ you do not 
consider my lungs sound.” 

“ Well, Mrs. Digby, if you must know the truth ” 

“ You may be quite sure that I wish to hear nothing 


BEAUTIFUL LIFE. 


327 


but the exact truth. Six weeks ago you examined my 
lungs.” 

“ Six weeks ago,” repeated Dr. Hobart, “ I examined your 
lungs, and found that tubercular disease had undoubtedly be- 
gun in both of them. On further examination bacilli were 
undoubtedly present. I told you the exact truth at the 
time.” 

“ You did. Your verdict corresponded with my own symp- 
toms. You know that my husband was a great authority on 
such matters. During his lifetime I studied the matter not 
a little. I felt that your verdict was correct, for it tallied 
with my own symptoms. I had the weariness and constant 
thirst which accompany this malady. I also had the night 
perspirations and the hacking cough.” 

Cecilia paused here. A great flood of color swept over her 
face, her eyes were bright with excitement. Her voice shook 
with agitation. She rose slowly from her seat. 

“ Dr. Hobart,” she said, “ I have come to you to-night to 
tell you that the symptoms of which I complained have 
vanished. I sleep well, I eat well, I have no weariness, I have 
no cough, I have no night perspirations. I walked a couple 
of miles to-day, and had not the slightest trace of lassitude 
when my walk was over. In short, if symptoms go for any- 
thing, I am at the present moment enjoying perfect health. 
It is my firm belief that the state of my lungs must correspond 
to the state of my sensations. Will you have the goodness to 
examine them most carefully ? ” 

Dr. Hobart did so. Presently he uttered an exclamation of 
astonishment. 

“ This is wonderful,” he said. “ I can scarcely credit my 
own ears. One moment longer, I beg. I must listen once 
again. Ah, no ! there is no mistake. The sounds are per- 
fectly clear. Mrs. Digby, you are a wonderful woman.” 

“ Then I am better ? ” 

“ Better ? You are apparently cured ! The small patches 
of tubercle have dried up. They were all too present a month 
ago. Now I can scarcely detect their existence. This is a 
most remarkable case. Can it be due to the air of High 
Barnet? My dear Mrs. Digby, I congratulate you from my 
very heart. You have made the most marvelous recovery 
from tubercular disease on record — yes, positively on record. 
You will permit me, my dear madam, you will permit me ” 

“ To do what ? ” asked Cecilia, as she drew on her gloves. 


328 


THE MEDICINE LADT. 


Her cheeks were crimson, her eyes had a proud light in 

them. 

“ To write a letter to the Lancet ? This thing must be 
known,” exclaimed the excited doctor. “ I am a native of 
this locality, and if we can prove the salubrious nature of the 
air as having any effect on your astonishing cure, the place is 
made — absolutely made.” 

“ Still,” said Cecilia, “ I must ask you not to write to the 
Lancet .” 

“ Why, why ? Surely you are not ashamed of the fact that 
the air of High Barnet has cured you ? ” 

“ I do not wish to have my case discussed. I have been ill 
and am well again. There is just a possibility, Dr. Hobart, 
that you may have been mistaken when you declared my 
lungs to be seriously affected.” 

“No, no. Living organisms existed. You remember how 
carefully I made my examination ? ” 

“ You did ; I will retract my words. Still, I must repeat my 
earnest request that you will not mention my cure to anyone.” 

Dr. Hobart fidgeted and looked dissatisfied. 

“ I am a poor man,” he began. “ Such a case as yours 
would bring me that pleasant notoriety which all men who 
want to be rich covet. I have a wife and five children. 
Hitherto we have had a hard struggle. The letter I should 
write would do you no harm ; I should, of course, be careful 
to mention no names.” 

“ Will you accept a fee from me of twenty pounds ? ” 

The doctor stammered and colored. 

“ Oh, but really,” he began, “ you are too generous ; and 

then, if report is correct ” 

“ Never mind reports, Dr. Hobart. I came here prepared 
to offer you a fee to this extent. You have been very kind 
to me. I trust to your honor not to discuss my case in any 
medical paper. Good-night ! ” 

Mrs. Digby left the house and went home. Miss Timmins 
thought her particularly cheerful that evening. She was less 
distraite than usual. She entered into small matters of in- 
tense moment both to Nance and Henny-Penny. The old 
Cecilia seemed to have come back. On one subject alone did 
she maintain intense reserve. Nance could not get her to speak 
of Digby. 

By and by, the small household slept, and only the mother 
and mistress lay awake. 


BEAUTIFUL LIFE. 


329 


Cecilia tossed from side to side on her restless bed. Her 
little daughter lay like a sleeping angel by her side. There 
was a night light burning in the room, and Cecilia noticed 
that Nance smiled several times in her dreams. Once she 
bent forward and kissed the sweet forehead ; a shadow seemed 
then to pass over the child’s face. She murmured her father’s 
name, anxiety in her tone ; then, turning from her mother, 
smiled in her happy dreams once more. 

“ Poor little Nance ! ” murmured Cecilia. “ She can’t 
understand me just now, nor can I quite understand myself. 
All I know is this : I must go on ; and I dare not talk of my 
dead husband.” 

In the morning she got up with a tired look on her face, 
but resolve in her eyes. 

“ Aunt Abigail,” she said, “ I am going to town to-day.” 

“ May I come with you, mother ? ” asked Nance. 

“Not to-day, my dearest. You must learn your pretty 
poems, and practice your music, and be very kind to Aunt 
Abigail, and very affectionate to Henny-Pennv, and most 
likely by the last train I shall come back. What is the 
matter, Aunt Abigail? I can see from your face that many 
thoughts are crowding to your lips.’’ 

“They won’t find utterance,” replied Miss Timmins. “I 
am quite accustomed to thinking thoughts which never get 
into speech. You look well, Cecilia. I may say that I never 
saw you look better.” 

“ I feel well,” replied Mrs. Digby. “ The possession of 
health is an inestimable blessing. It supports one under 
mental trials. Only those who have gone through weariness 
and pain know how mind reacts on body. My body is well 
now ; as a natural consequence my mind is, comparatively 
speaking, cheerful.” 

Nance had run out of the room. Miss Timmins rose from 
her seat at the table, went up to Cecilia, and looked into her 
face. 

“ I am glad you are better,” she said. “ I am also glad you 
are happier. You will forgive me, my dear, if I say one thing. 
The present Cecilia Digby is to me a sealed book. I fail to 
understand you.” 

Cecilia laughed slightly. 

“ Aunt Abigail,” she said, “ you must not imagine mysteries 
about me. I have gone through a good deal, and I have 
learnt reserve ; that is the long and short of it all. I have 


330 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


undoubtedly lost much, but it would not be right to go 
mourning all my days. While life remains there is work to 
be done. Now I have just time to catch the next train to 
town. Oh ! here is the post.” 

“A letter for you, mother,” said Nance, running in 
eagerly. 

“ From Lady Sharpe,” said Cecilia. She opened the en- 
velope, read its contents with changing color, then, replacing 
the sheet of paper in its cover, she turned to Miss Timmins. 

“ It is possible that I may not come home to-night,” she 
said. “ Lady Sharpe tells me that Dorothy is seriously un- 
well. She wants me to go and see her, and it is quite evident, 
from the tone of her letter, that she may wish me to stay in 
Cadogan Square for two or three days. 

“ Oh, mother ! ” began Nance. 

“ In that case,” continued Cecilia, glancing at the child, “ I 
may send for you, Nance, for Lady Sharpe has kindly in- 
vited you also, but I will not take you to London with 
me, darling. I will let you know what my plans are by a 
letter.” 

“ Is Miss Sharpe really much worse ? ” asked Miss 
Timmins. 

“ I fear she is very much worse ; I must go to see her with- 
out delay.” 

Cecilia went to town, and early in the afternoon arrived at 
the house in Cadogan Square. She was shown at once into 
the drawing room, where Lady Sharpe came forward to meet 
her. 

The moment the poor lady saw Cecilia she burst into un- 
controllable weeping. 

“ Oh, hush ! ” said Mrs. Digby. “ Suppose Dorothy comes 
in and finds you in this state of trouble.” 

“ My dear, my dear, I can’t help myself ; and Dorothy 
won’t come in, for she is not up yet. I have kept it all in ever 
since yesterday, ever since that dreadful, dreadful moment 
when Dr. Arbuthnot told me that my only child was dying.” 

Lady Sharpe sobbed distressfully as she spoke. Cecilia 
bent toward her, then,*inoved by an uncontrollable impulse, 
put her arms round the troubled woman, and drew her head 
to rest on her shoulder. 

“ Be comforted,” she said ; “be comforted. While there is 
life there is hope.” 

“Oh, don’t speak to me of hope ! You know — your hus- 


BEAUTIFUL LIFE. 


331 


band must have told you — how relentless this disease is ; how 
all the doctors in Christendom, how all that science and love 
and skill can do, are powerless. You know it, Cecilia Digby. 
Why do you speak to a broken-hearted mother of hope ? ” 

“ Is there no balm in Gilead ? ” said Cecilia suddenly. 
“ Lady Sharpe, if my husband were alive at this moment ! ” 

“ If he were, Cecilia, what then ? He could not cure 
Dorothy.” 

“ He could do much for her. I dare say no more.” 

After a few moments Lady Sharpe wiped away her tears. 
She began to consult with Cecilia on various minor points. 
Dolly must be amused, must be comforted. That great de- 
pression of mind must be overcome ; it was all essential that 
happiness should come back as a guest and lodge in her 
breast. 

“ Dr. Arbuthnot is positive on that point,” said Lady 
Sharpe. “ He even goes the length of wishing her to become 
engaged to Frank Crichton.” 

“ All in good time,” said Cecilia. “ Dorothy is too weak at 
present to bear the excitement of an engagement. Do you 
think I may go up now and see her ? ” 

“Yes, my love. I will show you the way.” 

The two ladies went upstairs, and Cecilia entered Dorothy’s 
beautiful bedroom. 

The girl was lying on the sofa in a pale blue tea gown. 
She stretched out her arms to Cecilia, and kissed her several 
times. 

“ You look quite bright,” she said, in her feeble voice, “and 
they told me you were ill.” 

“ I was ill, Dolly, but I have quite recovered now.” 

“ And yet you had pneumonia ; your lungs were affected.” 

“ For a time they were, but I am in perfect health at the 
present moment. Now let us talk of something else.” 

“ Are you going to stay with me ? ” 

“Do you really wish me to stay ?” 

“Of course I do. I have come to that pass when I want 
nothing very earnestly, but if there is one thing more than 
another which would give me comfort at the present moment, 
it is your presence. You will stay with me, won’t you ?” 

“ And we will send for Nance and Henny-Penny, too,” said 
Lady Sharpe ; “ they shall have Dorothy’s old nursery all to 
themselves.” 

“ And I will make Nance a present of my big babyhouse,” 


332 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


said Dorothy, raising herself slightly on her sofa, and 
smiling. 

“ Dear Cecilia, you have done her good already ! ” exclaimed 
the mother. “That settles it, then. You will allow us to 
send for Nance ? ” 

“ You are very kind ; I believe I can be of some use to 
Dolly. At least, I can promise one thing : I won’t allow her 
to be dismal, and, on the other hand, I won’t permit her to get 
overexcited.” 

“ You are a very wise nurse,” said Lady Sharpe. She left 
the room, to return in a few moments. 

“ I am sending Palmer down to High Barnet to fetch 
Nance,” she said. “ Next to you, Dolly loves Nance more 
than anyone in the world, and it would be a great pleasure to 
Sir Probyn and myself to have her in the house.” 

“ I will write a note, then, giving some directions,” said 
Cecilia. 

She took out her pencil, scribbled a few lines on a sheet of 
paper, put it into an envelope, and directed it to Miss Tim- 
mins. 

“ Thank you very much,” she said ; “ I know Nance will be 
quite delighted to come and stay with Dolly. 

Lady Sharpe took the note out of the room, and the sick 
girl and her friend were alone. 

“ At last,” said Dorothy. “ At long last, Cecilia. Oh, I 
have waited for this ! ” 

“ For what, my darling ? ” 

“For you, and for what I hoped you would be able to tell 
me.” 

“ Dorothy, it is wrong of you to excite yourself.” 

“ It is worse to be kept in suspense. You remember that 
day after we had paid our secret visit to Dr. Arbuthnot ? You 
know you promised to write to me soon ? I waited day after 
day for a letter, but none came. At last Miss Timmins sent 
me a tiny note. You were very ill with pneumonia. You 
could not write.” 

“ I could not, Dorothy. IJ.onged to write to you many, 
many times, but I could not do it. Twice I sat down be- 
fore a sheet of paper, pen in hand, but I could put no words 
upon the empty sheet.” 

“ Why was that, Cecilia ? Cecilia, you have got that queer 
look again on your face,” 

“Havel?” 


BEAUTIFUL LIFE. 


333 


Dorothy watched her friend narrowly. 

“ And you don’t look at all ill,” continued the girl. “ If you 
had pneumonia, your lungs must have been affected. I have 
heard that you, too, both you and Nance, are not very strong, 
that you have a tendency to the same disease which is killing 
me. If you suffered from pneumonia you ought not to look 
so w r ell as you do to-day.” 

“Never mind about it just now, Dolly darling. The sub- 
ject is too exciting, and you are too weak to speak of it at 
present. Try to be calm. Let us talk about common things.” 

“ I can’t ! I won’t ! You don’t know how I feel — I have 
no desire to live, but I hate to die. I imagine all sorts of 
horrors ; I hate the cold grave ; I picture myself — oh, Cecil ! 
may I tell you some of my horrors ? ” 

“If it will do you any good, Dorothy, I will gladly listen. 
I see that you have been repressing a great part of yourself 
for some time. You may tell me anything you like. There 
was a time when I, too, was haunted by bogies, but they turned 
out to be mere bogies, things wdthout form or substance. My 
husband taught me how to run my sword through them until 
they vanished.” 

“ Yes ! ” said Dorothy, “ but he is dead. He used to give 
me courage, too. Can I forget his look ? Can I forget the 
comforting feel of his strong hand ? When he spoke to me a 
great breeze of courage came into my feeble heart. He has 
gone, and his w r ords, too, seem to have departed. I lie here 
hour after hour and think of death. I wonder how it will hap- 
pen ; I wonder often about the pain of the last moment. The 
awful sense of suffocation — the dim sight. The friends appear- 
ing to go further and further away, while I drift — I drift 
down — down ! Then I think about my body after the soul has 
gone out of it. How cold and still it will lie, and how mother 
will come and kiss it and cry over it, and I — I shan’t be able to 
say a word; and my father — I picture the broken-hearted 
look on his face, how his head will be bowed, how his hair will 
turn rapidly white. And I think of my funeral and my coffin. 
Such a narrow box after the air and comfort and freedom of 
life. Then, such a cold, dark room as the family vault where 
they will place me ! and other dead people all around me ! and 
the footsteps of the living as they go away ! and the silence ! — 
the silence !” 

“ But, Dorothy,” interrupted Cecilia, “ this is wrong, this is 
the height of morbidness.” 


334 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“ Why is it the height of morbidness ? ” asked the poor girl. 
“ You know that I am going to die — beautiful life is going 
away from me and grim death is coming to claim me. Oh ! 
I am not a bit resigned. I feel changed in every way. I 
would give all the world, all the wide world, for a year or 
two more of life. I don’t love life, with its weariness and pain 
and suffering, but, at least, it is better than death.” 

“ But, Dorothy, my darling, you must try and remember 
that with death comes oblivion. When your soul leaves your 
body, your body will feel nothing more. It will not know 
about parting and pain and cold solitude.” 

“No, no ; but I realize it all. I suffer with my poor, de- 
serted body. Then, too, there is my soul. Cecilia, how can 
you tell that my soul will go to heaven ? ” 

“ Dearest Dorothy ” 

“ How can you tell ? ” persisted Dorothy. “ I feel fright- 
fully rebellious against God. Perhaps God is angry with me. 
Perhaps there is a hell of torture. O Cecilia, you can’t 
tell what I feel ! You can’t possibly realize what I suffer.” 

While Dorothy spoke the fever rose in her veins. The 
sparkle of false health came into her eyes; the hectic of false 
beauty visited her cheeks. She left her sofa, and, strong with 
the strength of fever, began restlessly to pace up and down 
her room. 

Mrs. Digby, who had sat very calm while the young girl 
was speaking, rose now, and, with a quick impulse, came tip 
to her side. 

“ Dorothy,” she said, “ you must control yourself. I can 
tell you nothing definite at this moment — I have to speak to 
others first, but I do not mind letting you know one thing. 
I have not come up here without a definite object. You must 
hope, Dorothy, and trust. I can say nothing more at pres- 
ent.” 

“ Nothing more ! But to hope means everything,” said 
Dorothy, her manner changing, the reckless look leaving her 
eyes, her cheeks paling with an emotion that was sweet, rest- 
ful, and glad. 

“ I can trust you,” she exclaimed impulsively. “ I can and 
I will. I will prove my trust by asking you nothing more 
until you choose to tell it to me.” 


WAS SHE AN ANGEL FROM HEAVEN? 


335 


CHAPTER IX. 

WAS SHE AN ANGEL FROM HEAVEN? 

The long and dreary day had come to an end. Dorothy was 
in bed and asleep. Little Nance, in ecstasy at finding herself 
once more with her dearly loved “Dolly,” was also in the 
land of dreams. Sir Probyn was out attending a political 
meeting, and Lady Sharpe and Mrs. Digby were alone. 

Dr. Arbuthnot had put Dorothy under the care of a very 
clever family physician in the neighborhood. He had come 
in to see her late that evening, pronounced her slightly better, 
had ordered a sleeping draught in case she was restless, and 
had gone away. 

Lady Sharpe sat before the fire in her dressing room. 
Cecilia stood by the mantelpiece. 

“I should like to tell you a story,” said Cecilia at last, in a 
slow voice. 

“ Yes, my dear.” Lady Sharpe raised her heavy eyes. 
Her interest in all stories except her own was languid just now. 
A queer smile crept round Cecilia’s lips. She said to her- 
self: 

“ How soon I can waken the dormant fire in those 
eyes ! ” 

Aloud she remarked gently: 

“ Before I tell you anything about my story, I must get 
you to make me a promise.” 

“A promise about a story? Very well, my dear, I’ll 
promise anything. Won’t you take a chair ? ” 

“ I like standing best. The story I am going to tell will 
interest you extremely, but before ! tell it to you, I must get 
you most solemnly to promise that you will never repeat it 
to anyone.” 

“ What do you mean, Cecilia ? Your face has a queer ex- 
pression.” 

“ More than one person has remarked about the queer ex- 
pression on my face lately. Your face, too, would look queer 
if you knew what I know.” 

“ You have discovered ” Lady Sharpe began. Her lips 

fell apart, her eyes blazed, she sat bolt upright on her 
chair. 

“ Promise that you will never tell.’ 

“ Oh, I promise, I promise. Go on, go on ! ” 


336 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“You will never whisper what I say to you to living 
mortal ? ” 

“ I never will.” 

“ Not even to Sir Probyn ? ” 

Lady Sharpe hesitated. 

“He has known all my heart hitherto.” 

“He must never know of this.” 

“Very well, Cecilia ; I promise. What you say to me 
to-night shall never pass my lips. Go on, you don’t know 
what I am enduring. You have discovered ” 

Cecilia walked across the room and locked the door. 
Then she returned to her former place by the mantel- 
piece. 

“I have, first of all, a confession to make,” she began, in 
a low, dreary voice. “ No woman ever had a better hus- 
band than I had. He was clever and honorable and brave. 
He died. On his dying bed he extracted from me a promise 
which I made, Lady Sharpe, in all faith, and far, far more 
solemnly than you have now promised to keep the secret I am 
confiding to you. What I have to confess is this : I have 
broken the promise made to my dearly beloved husband on 
his deathbed. I have broken it — and I don’t repent. I 
mean to break it again. I mean to tempt you to help me 
to break it again to-night. If you are afraid of me, you had 
better turn me out of the room. Now, I have told you 
frankly what sort of woman I am. I am doubtless wicked, 
and I am not even repentant. I cannot now speak of her 
father to his child. I try to do so, but I cannot; and there 
is a gulf between the sweet child and me. Otherwise, I am 
much as I was: in rather better health, perhaps; calmer of 
nerve, less passionate, than of old. You see what a cold- 
blooded monster I must be. Having lifted just a scrap of 
the curtain, and shown you my heart, had I not better go 
away ? ” 

“ No, no, Cecilia. Sit down, go on. Whatever you have 
to reveal, I must listen to it now; your words have excited 
me beyond reason.” 

“Very well. I will speak to you. I will tell you the 
promised story. Years ago my husband discovered a remedy 
which could cure consumption.” 

Lady Sharpe sprang suddenly to her feet. 

“You astonish me, you terrify me,” she said. “Surely 
you must be wandering in your mind ! Dr. Digby made a 


WAS SHE AN ANGEL FROM HEAVEN f 


337 


discovery for the cure of consumption, and kept it to himself! 
Quite impossible ! Dear Mrs. Digby, your troubles have 
turned your brain.” 

“ No ; I never felt more sane in my life. I have stated a 
fact, and can give you good proof of its existence. Years 
before we were married my husband prepared a certain lymph, 
with the idea of inoculating tuberculous patients with it. He 
told me of this preparation, but always declared that his dis- 
covery was immature, incomplete. He said that hundreds of 
proofs of success must be obtained, through endless and end- 
less experiments, before it would be safe to proclaim such a 
cure to the world. My husband was a most scrupulous man. 
He was often tempted to try the effect of this lymph on con- 
sumptive people, but, in reality, he went down to his grave 
having made one experiment only.” 

“ And that?” asked Lady Sharpe with white lips. 

“ Was made on himself many years ago.” 

“ Surely your husband was never consumptive? ” 

“ That is the point. He was not. As far as the experi- 
ment could be said to be of any value as made on a healthy 
person, it was successful. He never would repeat it, never. 
I own that, in that particular, I fail to understand him. I 
own that his conduct has puzzled me beyond words.” 

“ He must have had his reasons, Mrs. Digby — so good a 
man, so tender-hearted, so devoted to the cause of suffering 
humanity. I can recall his face now on the first day that I 
ever saw him, when he told me so sadly and yet so firmly that 
I had made a mistake — that, to his knowledge, there was no 
cure for the disease with which my child was threatened. As 
long as I live I shall never forget his face as it looked that 
day. The pity, the strength, the goodness that shone out of 
it. You must be laboring under a huge mistake, my dear 
friend. Your husband would never have kept such a cure to 
himself.” 

“ He did keep it to himself, Lady Sharpe, and his reasons 
for doing so were perfectly consistent with his character. He 
considered the experiment he had made on himself of minor 
importance, because he had no trace of tubercular disease in 
his system. He told me more than once that it was impossi- 
ble to foresee what the effect of the lymph would be on a 
person already affected with a tendency to consumption. Pie 
said he dared not try the lymph on such persons. He had 
almost a morbid feeling on the subject, and although he 


338 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


hoped to live to complete what he believed to be an immature 
idea, he did not stir very actively in the matter during the 
latter years of his extremely busy life.” 

“Dr. Phillips knew something of this discovery of your 
husband’s, Mrs. Digby. Dr. Digby must have spoken of it at 
some time in the profession.” 

“Never. It has been the greatest possible puzzle to us 
both how Dr. Phillips obtained the knowledge which he un- 
doubtedly possessed. He has worried me and annoyed my 
husband not a little in the matter; but his conduct scarcely 
concerns us now. Shall I go on ? ” 

“ Yes, my dear. My heart and soul hang on your words.” 

“ On his dying bed Laurence said to me, ‘ Burn certain 
papers which contain a full account of my imperfect discov- 
ery. Burn them, or, if you cannot bring your mind to do 
that, send them in a sealed packet to a physician who will 
know what to do with them.’ Those were my husband’s dy- 
ing words, and I promised most faithfully to obey him. God 
heard me, and so did the devil. Shall I go on ? ” 

“ Yes, my poor dear ; you are trembling very much.” 

“ I want to get away from that deathbed scene, even in my 
thoughts. I shall soon be calm enough. 

“Lady Sharpe, I broke my promise. I did not burn the 
papers. I sealed them up in a packet, and directed them to 
the doctor in whom my husband trusted. For three months 
they lay in a drawer, untouched, unlooked at; but the weight 
of them pressed day and night against my heart. Then Dor- 
othy came to me, and told me that consumption was making 
her its prey once more. On the night after she left me I 
opened the sealed packet, and read my husband’s clearly ex- 
pressed notes from beginning to end. All that passed through 
his mind he recorded on paper. His dim first impressions ; 
his reasons for supposing that a certain remedy might con- 
quer a certain disease ; the gradual way in which the light 
entered his brain ; his experiment on himself and its conse- 
quences; an exact and most exhaustive account of the right 
way to prepare this remedy ; and lastly, full particulars with 
regard to the applying of his cure in cases of consumption. 

“ My brain seemed to turn dizzy as I read, then it grew 
clear and my nerves steady, and I said to myself, ‘ There 
must have been some latent madness in my husband’s brain or 
he would have used this cure, complete in all its details, on 
the human frame.’ I made one last discovery before I went 


WAS SHE AN ANGEL FROM HEAVENt 


339 


to bed that night. Accompanying the papers was a small 
box. It contained about a dozen tiny glass tubes, hermetic- 
ally sealed, each of which contained a few drops of the pre- 
cious remedy, and lying beside them was a hypodermic 
syringe, necessary for the introduction of the fluid beneath 
the skin. 

“ I locked up the papers and box, and went to bed. 

“ I will tell you nothing of that night, nor of the illness 
which followed. When I recovered from a severe attack of 
pneumonia, the local doctor examined my lungs, and told me 
that what my husband had long dreaded for me had come to 
pass. I, too, was smitten with the scourge. The usual cheer- 
ful face accompanied the physician’s words, the usual assurance 
that I need not be very anxious was given to me. I knew 
better, 1 knew that I was doomed. 

“ The doctor went away, and I had a struggle with my- 

“ Yes,” said Lady Sharpe, “you had a struggle with your- 
self ? Yes ? ” She tottered to her feet, came up to Cecilia, 
and clasped her hands with a vise of iron. Her face looked 
gray in its absorbed interest. 

“ I had a struggle with myself for two days. What I went 
through then matters to no one. At the end of that time I 
either rose to a height of courage, or fell to a depth of igno- 
miny — before God, I don’t know whether I rose or fell ! — I 
tried my husband’s remedy on my own person.” 

“ And Cecilia — go on, go on, what followed ? ” 

“ I was cured. That is all.” 

“ Oh, my God ! ” said Lady Sharpe. 

She fell on her knees in a kind of agony, which was half 
ecstasy, half torture. Then, groping forward almost blindly 
on her knees, she caught Cecilia’s hands and pressed them 
reverently to her lips. 

“ You are an angel,” she said. “ You are an angel sent to 
me straight from heaven.” 

“ No, don’t call me that. Get up, Lady Sharpe. In a 
moment like this we must both keep calm, we must subdue 
our feelings and bring our intellects to bear on the decision 
which lies before us. The question now to answer is this : 
Shall I risk trying the remedy on Dorothy ? ” 

“Yes, yes. How can you hesitate? How can anyone 
hesitate ? * There is not a moment to lose — there is not an 
instant to delay. Cecilia Digby, it is your duty, your noble, 


340 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


great, grand duty, to bring Dorothy back to life, and to keep 
two tortured hearts from being broken.” 

“You must not speak in that way,” said Cecilia again. 
“ If it is possible to do so, we must think this thing out with- 
out emotion. I reoall my husband’s notes, I recall his many 
conversations with me on this subject. He has often said to 
me, 4 I cannot use the cure which I have discovered on the 
human frame without endless experiments.’ ” 

“ But why ? ” interrupted Lady Sharpe. “ Why did he 
speak in that manner ? You told me that the remedy was 
perfect, that he absolutely filled glass tubes with the prepara- 
tion. He tried it on himself without injury, you tried it on 
yourself, and you were cured, you are absolutely cured, al- 
though consumption had begun.” 

“ That is a fact. There were living organisms in my lungs : 
they have disappeared. From the moment those organisms 
died, I got well. There is not the least doubt that the intro- 
duction of the lymph into my body destroyed them.” 

“You must try the remedy on Dorothy, Cecilia. My mind 
is made up.” 

“ Sit down, Lady Sharpe. Let us talk this thing out 
thoroughly. It is right to tell you that my husband’s appre- 
hensions were these. The lymph in question is a very active 
poison. It is, in fact, a much diluted form of the complaint 
under which your daughter suffers. According to recent 
scientific lights, which I need not go into, it may produce 
symptoms which will kill all susceptibility to the disease 
in her frame, but — and here is the danger which my husband 
apprehended — it may also rapidly develop the complaint. 
Dorothy at the present moment is suffering from a form of 
consumption, but the disease is making slow progress ; she 
is weak and nervous, her mind is in a very morbid and un- 
healthy state, her lungs are affected, but the disease itself 
proceeds slowly. If I introduce this lymph into her body, it 
may cure her, or she may die in a few weeks’ time. You 
must face this fact, Lady Sharpe. That is the point to con- 
sider. The remedy may cure or it may hasten death.” 

“This is terrible,” said the mother. “This new light 
which you throw on the thing makes me fear it as much as I 
long for it. Oh ! what shall I do ? Dare I run the risk ? 
Ought I not to consult Dr. Arbuthnot ? ” 

“No, I must ask you not to do that. Dr. Arbuthnot would 
on no account use the remedy. He would take away my 


WAS SHE AN ANGEL FROM HEAVEN t 


341 


husband’s papers, and lock them in a dark drawer, and forget 
them. The most advanced doctor in London would only use 
this lymph after months, perhaps years, of experiments. In 
the meantime, Dorothy dies.” 

“ What would you do, Cecilia, if you were in my place ? ” 

“ I can scarcely put myself in your place.” 

“ Would you use this remedy on Nance if you saw any 
likelihood of consumption beginning in her little frame?” 

Cecilia hesitated for a moment and turned pale. 

“ I think I should use the remedy,” she said, in a low voice. 
“It has cured me, and Nance must inherit my peculiarities ; 
but the case is scarcely analogous. ‘ Like mother, like child,’ 
is a well known proverb ; we have not a similar history to go 
upon in Dorothy’s case.” 

“No, and yet I am strongly, strongly tempted. Mrs. 
Digby, you must advise me ! ” 

“ I dare not. I have told you all ; it is for you to decide 
on this matter.” 

“ You forbid me to consult Sir Probyn ? ” 

“Ido, because I am positively convinced that he would not 
entertain the idea.” 

“ God knows what is right ! ” said Lady Sharpe. “ The 
child is dying and miserable, we may save her and give her 
happiness. Oh, that light from heaven could be poured down 
upon us ! Mrs. Digby, if the cure is successful, is there any- 
thing, in your opinion, to prevent Dorothy’s marriage ?” 

“ On that very point I wish to speak. In one of my hus- 
band’s papers he said that, if the remedy were successful, it 
would destroy all tendency to consumption in the body of the 
person cured. In that case the power to transmit the disease 
to another must also be destroyed.” 

“Then she could marry, and marry safely. She would be 
brought back to health, and her future would be as happy as 
any other happy girl’s. Oh, Mrs. Digby ! I think I shall risk it.” 

“You ought to consult Dorothy. My feelings in a case of 
this kind are that the patient herself ought to consent. The 
risk she runs is simply this : at the worst she hastens her death 
by two or three months, at the best she returns to life and 
health.” 

Lady Sharpe rose suddenly from her chair. 

“ I must spend the night thinking it over,” she said. “ No, 
I will do more. I will spend the night on my knees. I will 
let you know my decision in the morning.” 


342 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Cecilia went away to her own room. She, too, fell on her 
knees, but she quickly rose again. 

“ There is a gulf between my husband and me,” she said. 
“ He is in heaven, and I am on earth. I cannot pray, and yet, 
am I doing wrong ? Am I doing wrong to try this cure on 
that fleeting, fading, struggling, agonizing life ? Poor, pretty 
little Dorothy, she beats her wings against her cage. She 
longs to get out of this suffering, miserable state. Oh ! I 
feel, down in my heart, that I can cure her. I trust, I hope, 
that her mother will allow me to try my cure.” 

Lady Sharpe looked so old on the following morning that 
her husband remarked it. 

“ If you go on at this rate,” he said, “ you will follow 
Dorothy very quickly to her grave. I wish the child was not 
so pig-headed about going abroad. I feel inclined to speak to 
her myself. If she knew how the whole affair is telling upon 
your health, she might be induced to rouse herself for her 
mother’s sake.” 

“ You must not say anything to her for the present, 
Probyn,” said his wife. “ Cecilia Digby’s presence will, I am 
convinced, do her good.” 

Lady Sharpe could only pretend to eat breakfast that morn- 
ing. Immediately afterward, she called Mrs. Digby into her 
boudoir. 

“ Don’t ask me any questions,” she said. “ Get it done as 
soon as possible.” 

“ You have decided? ” 

“ Yes ; don’t ask me a single question. I have spent an 
awful night, but I have made up my mind.” 

“ Dorothy must be told,” said Cecilia. 

“ Come upstairs and tell her.” 

“She is almost safe to consent,” continued Mrs. Digby. 
“ There is one thing more that I must say. If the remedy 
takes effect, you must expect her to be worse for a day or 
two.” 

Lady Sharpe hesitated. 

“ The fact of her being worse will be a good symptom. To 
kill the tendency to this terrible disease, the poison must pro- 
duce a certain effect upon her. It is absolutely necessary that 
no one but you, her mother, and Dorothy herself should know 
of what I am about to do. Dr. Arbuthnot has ordered her 
certain medicines, has he not ? ” 

“Yes.” 


WAS SHE AN ANGEL FROM HEAVEN? 343 

“ While I am trying my remedy she must not take them. 
It is very probable that you will feel obliged to call him in. 
Let him come, by all means. I should rather like him to see 
her during the few days that the remedy is working. He will 
be able to report to us on the condition of her lungs. All you 
have to do, all Dorothy has to do, all I have to do, is to main- 
tain absolute silence with regard to the course I am about to 
take. This must be clearly understood.” 

“ Yes, Cecilia ; I will go through with it. I will lean ab- 
solutely upon you.” 

“If — if she dies?” said Cecilia, with white lips. 

“ We won’t talk of that,” said Lady Sharpe, shivering. 
“If she dies, you will leave my house, won’t you ? You will 
never look me in the face again. But even if she dies, I will 
not reveal what has happened.” 

“ She will not die,” said Cecilia, with sudden fervor ; “ of 
that I feel convinced.” 

“I said last night you were an angel from Heaven.” 

“ I don’t like you to say things of that sort. You can 
scarcely comprehend what my feelings are.” 

“Yes, I can. If a mother can bring herself to run such a 
risk, surely she can understand the feelings of another placed 
in your circumstances.” 

“ That is true. Well, I will go upstairs and prepare 
Dorothy.” 

“ When her mind is made up,” said Lady Sharpe, “ it will 
not do to keep her long in suspense. Have you the remedy 
and directions with you ? ” 

“ I have everything with me. I can try the great experi- 
ment within an hour from the present time.” 

“ Then God prosper you, Cecilia ! ” 

Mrs. Digby left the room very quietly. 

Dorothy was lying, calm and smiling, in her bed. 

“ I feel better this morning,” she said to Cecilia. “ The first 
thing I remembered when I woke was that you were in the 
house. You are my good angel, you know. You remind me 
of your husband.” 

“ Dorothy,” said Cecilia, “ can you bear a great excite- 
ment ?” 

“ Yes, yes, for I see hope in your face.” 

“ I was speaking to your mother for a long time last night. 
I told her that I possess a certain knowledge, that I further 
possess a certain cure,” 


344 


THE MEDICINE LADY , . 


“ Oh, your husband’s cure ? ” 

“ My husband’s cure.” 

“ Then he did discover a cure ? I was right ? ” 

“ He did.” 

“ Why did he not try it on me ? ” 

“ Because of the great risk that attends it.” 

“ What is that ? ” 

“ It may kill or cure.” 

“ Kill ? ” Dorothy turned pale. 

“ It is this, darling. It may cure you absolutely, or it may 
hasten your death. I have full particulars with me. I can 
administer the cure to you without the slightest trouble, as 
surely and as effectually as my husband could, were he living. 
If it has the effect we anticipate, you will be well, absolutely 
quite well, in a month or six weeks.” 

“ If it has not the effect ? ” asked Dorothy. 

“ In that case, your disease will grow rapidly, and you will 
die much sooner than you would if the medicine which I am 
about to use were not administered.” 

“ If it cures me, can I marry ? ” asked Dorothy. 

“ You may safely marry. The remedy, when it is success- 
ful, is so potent that those whom it cures may as safely marry 
as those who never had the smallest tendency to consump- 
tion.” 

Dorothy’s eyes sparkled. 

“ I love Frank,” she said. “ I want to think for a few 
minutes of a glad, beautiful future with him.” 

“You must face the other possibility too, Dorothy — the 
possibility of going down into your grave some months 
sooner than you might have gone.” 

“ I know,” said Dorothy. “ You place before me a possible 
beautiful life, or a possible speedy death. I don’t know that 
I want to linger on as I am doing now. If I stay in my pres- 
ent state I shall certainly die, shall I not ? ” 
u That is true, dear.” 

“ How soon ? ” 

“ I cannot tell you. I should imagine that, with care, you 
might live for nine or ten months longer, perhaps even for a 
year. At the same time, a chill, this inclement climate, a 
thousand chances, may make the disease in your lungs so much 
worse that your life will be over in a few weeks.” 

“ And this cure of yours may also kill me in a few weeks ? ” 
“ You must certainly face this possibility,” 


VICTORY. 


345 


“ Will r you go away, Cecilia, and come back again in half 
an hour ? ” 

Cecilia left the room — she stood in the passage outside the 
door. She had made up her mind that if Dorothy consented 
to have the remedy tried upon her, she would administer it 
without delay. 

“ Suspense must he avoided at all risks,” she said to herself. 
She felt calm now, untroubled. It seemed to her that she was 
doing right. For the time being she was unoppressed by 
forebodings. Nance’s gay laugh was heard in the distance ; 
Cecilia went along the corridor to meet her child, put her 
arms round her and kissed her. 

“ How is Dorothy ? ” asked the little girl. 

“ I want you to pray for Dolly, Nance.” 

“Yes, mother, I always pray for her. I love her very 
much. May I go to her now? ” 

“ Not at present. Henny-Penny will take you for a walk, 
dearest. Don’t forget what I asked you to do.” 

Cecilia returned again, to take up her place outside 
Dorothy’s door. In a very short time the young girl rang her 
bell. Cecilia went into the room at once. 

“ I have made up my mind,” said Dorothy, smiling. “ I 
will take the risk.” 

“Ye ry well,” answered Cecilia. “Would you like your 
mother to be in the room ? ” 

“ No. I only want you. Is it a medicine that I am to 
take ? ” 

“You will not take it in the ordinary way, Dorothy. I 
must inject something under your skin. The pain will be but 
a pin’s prick. Keep up your courage, I will be with you 
again in a few minutes.” 


CHAPTER X. 

VICTORY. 

That night Miss Sharpe was flushed and feverish. Her heart 
beat quickly, her eyes were very bright. Shivering and fever 
had undoubtedly set in. Cecilia made the calmest, coolest, 
most admirable nurse. 

“ I should like to have the patient to myself,” she said to 
Lady Sharpe. “ Tlie symptoms are exactly what they ought 
to be, but it would be well for Dr. Arbuthnot to see her.” 


346 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


The physician called about eight o’clock that evening and 
saw Dorothy. 

Cecilia had taken off her widow’s dress. She was in a soft 
gray gown, that madejnot the slightest noise as she walked 
about the room. 

“ Dorothy is very fond of me,” she said to the doctor, “ so 
I am going to nurse her for a few days.” 

Dr. Arbuthnot made an examination of his patient’s lungs. 
Then he went downstairs with Lady Sharpe. 

“ I can’t quite account for this fever,” he said. “ With 
such a temperature as Miss Sharpe has to-night, the mischief 
in her lungs ought to be more active than it was when last I 
sounded them; on the contrary ” 

“ Yes,” asked Lady Sharpe, “ on the contrary ? ” 

“ It has not advanced at all. If I might dare to say such a 
thing, her lungs seem somewhat better; not worse. I will 
come again in the morning.” 

After a day or two the fever symptoms abated. Cecilia 
waited a little longer, then she introduced a fresh supply of 
the remedy under the patient’s skin. There was again fever, 
but not so acute. Dr. Arbuthnot called daily. Dorothy’s 
condition plainly puzzled him. He wondered if there was 
anything wrong with the drains of the house. He could not 
understand this relapsing fever. He was more anxious than 
ever that his patient should get out of London. 

The third dose of the poison produced scarcely any 
disturbance of the system. Cecilia then said she could do no 
more. 

“ It is my firm impression that you are cured, Dorothy,” 
she said. “ These, however, are early days to decide. I 
would rather no physician sounded your lungs for two or 
three weeks, but I should be very glad if you would come 
with me to Torquay.” 

It was one thing for Dorothy Sharpe to think of leaving 
home as a helpless invalid, another to go away with the strong 
assurance that she was practically cured. 

The weight of care which had oppressed her young spirits 
vanished almost immediately after Cecilia had worked her 
wonderful cure upon her. She looked once more like the old 
Dorothy. Her eyes were bright with the gleam of returning 
health. Her cheeks had color in them, but that color was not 
caused by the hectic of fever. 

The reaction from the lowest spirits to great gayety of 


VICTORY. 


347 


heart made her almost childish in her mirth. Nance became 
again her favorite companion, and the two had many a merry 
time together. 

The removal to Torquay took place soon after Christmas. 
Cecilia and Nance accompanied Lady Sharpe and Dorothy. 
It was February when they returned once more to town. 

On a certain snowy morning, Dr. Arbuthnot was told that 
Lady Sharpe and Miss Sharpe had called to see him. He 
uttered an angry exclamation half under his breath. 

“ The madness of that woman ! ” he said to himself, “bring- 
ing a delicate girl out on a day like this ! ” 

“ I will see Lady Sharpe at once, Andrews,” he said to his 
servant. 

The mother and daughter entered the consulting room. 

Where was the Dorothy of old ? the drooping, downcast, 
excitable, despondent creature ? 

Dr. Arbuthnot almost failed to recognize her in the bloom- 
ing, handsome, upright girl who stood before him. 

“My dear Miss Sharpe,” he exclaimed in unfeigned de- 
light, wringing her hand as he spoke, “ you look well — ab- 
solutely well ! What wonders Torquay has done for you ! 
Catch me ever sending a patient out of England again. Pray 
take a chair, Lady Sharpe. Will you sit on the sofa, Miss 
Dorothy? Yes, you are better; I can see that fact by your 
eyes alone. But what, in the name of fortune, brought you 
out on a day like this ? ” 

Lady Sharpe began to speak in a trembling and somewhat 
agitated manner. 

“ The fact is,” she said, “ the cold does not seem to influence 
Dorothy at all now. Ever since those feverish attacks in 
December when you attended her, Dr. Arbuthnot, she has 
been getting steadily better.” 

“ Better ? I grant you she is better, but her lungs will re- 
quire care — they will continue to require care during the rest 
of her life. What about her cough and her appetite ? Does 
she still suffer from great fatigue ? ” 

“ Her cough is gone, her appetite was never better, she 
sleeps well, and I don’t think she is ever tired.” 

“I feel as if I wanted to fly,” said Dorothy. “People 
don’t want to fly if they are tired, do they, Dr. Arbuthnot ? ” 

“ Except to fly away, my dear young lady. Come, come, 
this is a wonderful account you and your mother are giving 
me. I must listen to your lungs without delay.” 


348 


THE MEDICINE LADY \ 


Dr. Arbuthnot made no remark while he made his careful 
examination. At last it was over. He sat down by his* 
writing table, and opening the large book in which he re- 
corded particulars of his cases, made some rather long 
entries. 

Dorothy stood before him with a fast beating heart. Lady 
Sharpe sat in her chair and trembled. 

“ Well ? ” said the mother at last. 

“ Am I better ? ” asked the daughter. 

“Better?” The doctor raised his shaggy eyebrows, and 
fixed his eyes on the girl’s beautiful, blushing face. “ You 
are very, very much better, Miss Sharpe,” he said. “ In short, 
you are ” 

“ Oh, do say it ! Please don’t hesitate if it is true. Am I 
cured ? ” 

“Practically you are cured. The disease in your lungs has 
been completely arrested.^ The patches of tubercle have dried 
up. It is marvelous, incomprehensible ! I could not have 
believed the recovery you have made possible when I ex- 
amined your lungs two months ago.” 

“ Is the disease likely to return ? ” asked Lady Sharpe. 

“ I see no reason why it should. All Miss Sharpe’s symp- 
toms point to returning health. She has put on flesh, she has 
gained color. Her digestion seems excellent. You tell me 
she sleeps well, eats well, that she does not cough, and is never 
tired. What more can any young lady want to complete her 
bill of health?” 

“ Then, Dr. Arbuthnot ” Lady Sharpe raised her eyes, 

full of speech, to the physician’s face. 

“ I know to what you allude, my dear madam,” he replied. 
“By all means. There is nothing whatever to prevent it. 
Nothing whatever. I congratulate you, Miss Dorothy, from 
the bottom of my heart. I should like to see you again in a 
fortnight. Just for my own satisfaction : not that there is 
the least need.” 

Lady Sharpe and her daughter returned home. They went 
straight into Lady Sharpe’s boudoir, where Cecilia was wait- 
ing to hear Dr. Arbuthnot’s verdict. 

“ It is all right, my dear,” said the good lady, going up to 
Mrs. Digby and embracing her. “You have proved yourself 
what I said you were long ago — an angel sent to us straight 
from Heaven.” . 

Cecilia began to tremble very much. She did not cry, but 


VICTORY. 


349 


her eyes grew dim. She turned away and walked abruptly 
to the window. 

“ Your praise pains me,” she said, suddenly turning round. 
“ You don’t know what a weight I carry forever at my heart. 
I have done right — I must have done right — in administering 
the remedy to Dorothy which has effected her cure, but, 
although I have done right, I feel as if I had committed a 
sin. You know why I say this, you know my reasons. Now 
let us forget the cure. Don’t thank me any more, I beg of 
you.” 

“No, Cecilia, I will not thank you,” said Lady Sharpe 
gravely. “ I will do nothing whatever to cause you a mo- 
ment’s pain, my dearest and best friend. But, at the same 
time, I must say I think you will do distinctly wrong if you 
hide this remedy from the world. Your husband told you to 
take the papers to Dr. Dickinson. I am sure your plain duty 
is to do so, and to tell him frankly that you were tempted to 
try the experiment both on yourself and on Dorothy, and in 
both instances with marked success.” 

Cecilia turned paler than before ; she did not speak. 

“ You will do this, my dear?” said Lady Sharpe. 

“I will think over what you say,” she answered, in a 
guarded voice, and the conversation drifted into ordinary 
channels. 

Soon there was a sound of an arrival. A slight commotion 
in the hall, steps coming quickly up the stairs, and Crichton, 
his face radiant, entered the boudoir. 

Dorothy gave a slight cry when she saw him. 

“ What is this news ? ” he exclaimed. “ I have just come 
from Dr. Arbuthnot. He has told me something absolutely 
marvelous, miraculous. Is it true ? Can it be true ? ” 

“ Look for yourself,” said Lady Sharpe, going up to her 
blushing daughter and taking her hand. 

“ Are you really well, Dorothy ? ” asked the young man. 

“ I never felt better in my life.” 

“ You look well. Do you remember the picnic on the 
Thames ? You seemed in good health then, but now your eyes 
have a brightness, your whole face has the expression, which 
testifies to vigorous health. Who has done it, Dorothy? 
This is — this is a miracle ! ” 

Dorothy looked round. Her impulse was to thank Cecilia, 
but Cecilia had vanished ; Lady Sharpe had also left the 
room. 


350 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“Who has been your physician? Someone has laid the 
balm of healing on you. Can I forget what you looked like 
on that cruel, cruel day when I saw you last? ” 

“ I was dying,” said Dorothy. “ My body was falling away, 
my mind was getting proportionately weak, my spirit wak 
weighed down by fear and unhappiness. You must forget 
that day, Frank.” 

“ Frank ! ” exclaimed the young man. “ Will you really 
call me Frank ? ” 

“ Yes, yes.” 

“ Then that means ” 

“ It means what you like,” said Dorothy. She raised her 
eyes quickly for an instant ; they drooped the next moment 
under Crichton’s ardent gaze. 

“Arbuthnot spoke the truth,” he exclaimed in rapture. 
“We can be married, we can be the very happiest couple in 
the world. Dorothy, my dear, I am a medical man. This 
marvelous cure could not have been effected without means. 
Who is at the bottom of it? Surely, surely not poor old 
Arbuthnot ?” 

“ Frank,” said Dorothy suddenly, “ I am, as you see me, per- 
fectly well. I have neither ache nor pain. I am willing to 
become your wife whenever you are ready to marry me, but if 
you take me, Frank, you must do so with one stipulation.” 

“ Anything, my dearest. Anything in the wide world, only 
to win you.” 

“You must never ask me by what means I have been made 
well.” 

“ But this is ” 

“ Promise, Frank. There must be one secret between us, 
but only one. Be satisfied that something has happened so 
good and so wonderful that, instead of my going down into 
the cold grave, I am coming to you with my heart full of love 
and my body strong and healthy in every particular ; but I 
cannot tell you how this thing has happened, Frank. You 
must not ask me.” 

Crichton’s face grew dark with anxiety for a moment, then 
it cleared. His own unexpected happiness was too absorbing 
for anything to greatly trouble him just then. But not the 
less did he ponder over Dorothy’s strange words, and not the 
less curious was he to know the reason of her wonderful res- 
toration to health. 


Bool? V, — tlbe Wall*? of tbc SbaOow. 


CHAPTER I. 

MAN AGAINST WOMAN. 

Cecilia returned to the country. Miss Timmins was glad 
to have her back again, but she noticed a change in her, 
which soon proclaimed itself in actions. 

“ Aunt Abigail,” said Mrs. Digby, “ I am anxious to give 
up this house ; I want to live in town.” 

“ I thought as much, my love,” replied Miss Timmins. 

“ Yes,” said Cecilia, “ I should like to go to London ; I 
should be very glad also if you would come and live with 
me.” 

“ I think not, my dear. My own little cottage at Highgate 
still awaits me.” 

“It must be as you please, Aunt Abigail. I say with truth 
that it would give me pleasure if you continued to live with 
Nance and me, but you must do exactly as 3^011 like.” 

“ I would do anything in the world for your real good, 
Cecilia, but I am no longer necessary to you. I must say 
frankly, therefore, that London air never suited me. My 
cough is only a throat cough, but it gets worse and more irri- 
table when I breathe the air which pervades the great metrop- 
olis. I should prefer to stay in the country, my dear ; but I 
promise to come to you day or night if need should arise.” 

“ Very well, Aunt Abigail, it must be as 3 t ou wish.” 

Cecilia went into town two days later, and took lodgings 
for herself and Nance. She was now, in every sense of the 
word, a poor woman. There were some who would have made 
her otherwise — Dr. Phillips would have bought her secret 
from her at a great price, and Lady Sharpe would have paid 
her any sum in reason for the cure she had effected on Doro- 
thy ; but Cecilia would not sell her secret, nor would she take 
money for Doroth3 r ’s recoveiy. She said, and very truly, that 

351 


352 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


wealth had no charms for her ; her wants were few, and there 
was a part of London where she could live even on an income 
which did not reach £200 a year. 

Cecilia took lodgings for herself and Nance in Bloomsbury. 
Henny-Penny went with them, but Sally Jenkins was no 
longer needed. Cecilia’s rooms were unfurnished. They con- 
sisted of two or three large rooms on the top story of an old- 
fashioned house. The rooms were lofty and had plenty of air 
in them. Cecilia took some pains with regard to their fur- 
nishing. She had a small sum which was not invested for 
her, and with this she bought certain things which would 
not usually become part of a lady’s requirements. The largest 
sitting room was fitted up with her husband’s books, his large 
secretary, and one or two other strange looking articles of 
furniture which outsiders knew nothing about. One of these 
happened to be an incubator. Cecilia told no one why she 
required it. She kept the door of that sitting room locked, 
and dusted it and cleaned it herself. Even Nance was never 
allowed to enter this room. 

Soon after her arrival with her little daughter in these Lon- 
don lodgings, she went out and paid a visit to the nearest 
clergyman. She told him part of her story, only a part. He 
took an interest in her — it was very usual for poor Cecilia to 
arouse this feeling in her fellow creatures — and she asked him 
to let her work among his poor as a district visitor. 

He was only too glad to give her permission to do so. She 
was given a large district to visit, and from that moment her 
life became a very busy one. In the morning she taught 
Nance herself. The little girl was growing up stronger than 
anyone had anticipated who had seen her a year or so before. 
In the afternoon Cecilia visited her district, in the evening she 
read to Nance, talked to her, petted her, and saw her to bed ; 
then, while the child slept, the mother would spend long 
hours, very long hours, far into the night in that mysterious 
sitting room which no one ever entered but herself. 

About two or three in the morning she would go upstairs to 
bed, creeping up stair after stair with a weary look on her 
white face. The sleep which followed those long night vigils 
was troubled and broken. It came in fits, and would abruptly 
terminate by sharp cries which would frighten Nance, who 
would awake suddenly and ask her mother what was the 
matter. 

“ Nothing, my darling,” Cecilia would always say ; and the 


MAN AGAINST WOMAN 


353 


child would give her a passionate hug, and turn away with a 
feeling she could not account for in her little heart. 

Mrs. Digby became popular in her district ; in some parts of 
it she became very popular. As she walked down the narrow 
and dirty streets, some women and some men would regard 
her, as she passed slowly through their midst, with almost 
reverence. Some women would call blessings after her, and 
would even whisper mysteriously together about her. She 
was spoken of as the strange lady who had a secret that 
acted like magic — a secret that no one must speak about, 
but which many within that poor, squalid district were too 
thankful to avail themselves of. 

Many months passed away, and Cecilia was still loved 
and blessed in her district ; but suddenly there came a dif- 
ferent note, striking discord into the universal psalm of 
blessing. 

There was one woman who shrieked when she saw Cecilia, 
shrieked, turned away, and rushed into her own house. She 
did this several times. At last she was removed to an 
asylum — the neighbors said she was mad; they also mut- 
tered one to another that this madness had visited her after 
the death of her only son. He was eighteen years of age, 
and had died of very rapid consumption. Mrs. Digby had 
visited him when she visited other consumptive patients. 
She had a wonderful cure for consumption, the neighbors said; 
it had saved lots of people whom the doctors had given 
over. The people supposed that Mrs. Digby had tried the 
remedy on Ralph Danby, but Ralph Danby had not re- 
covered; on the contrary, he had died very quickly, and after 
his death his mother had taken to cursing Cecilia, and then 
had gone suddenly off her head. 

Cecilia looked years older after this event, but in the quiet 
lodgings where she lived there was no one to notice the 
changes in her face, the gray hairs on her head, the wrinkles 
round her eyes, except Nance, and Nance never spoke of what 
was in her heart. 

Dorothy Sharpe was now a happy wife. She was restored 
to perfect health, and the old gayety and buoyancy of heart 
which had so characterized her early youth returned to her. 

She and her husband lived in the Digbys’ old house. It 
was once more bright with flowers and and gay with pleas- 
ant life. 


354 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Crichton had not Digby’s abilities, but in his line he was 
also a clever man, well spoken of in the profession, and likely 
to rise to a moderate eminence by and by. 

The Phillipses and Crichtons lived on friendly terms with 
each other, and Dorothy, when she had nothing better to do, 
liked to sit with Helen Phillips and talk to her of the old 
days. The Digbys were a favorite theme for conversation 
between these two; they had both loved Digby, and they both 
regarded his wife with affection. 

One hot summer’s day the two young women were sitting 
side by side near one of the open windows, when Phillips 
entered the room. 

“ Don’t let me interrupt your talk,” he said to them. “ I 
heard a name .on your lips as I came into the room; that name 
interests me — you were speaking of poor Digby ? ” 

“Ho,” said Dorothy, “we were not. Helen was just tell- 
ing me something about his wife.” 

“ Well, it is all the same. Digby’s wife seems part of him 
to a remarkable degree; I don’t mind admitting that her name 
interests me even more than her husband’s. She is alive, he 
is dead. She was always a remarkable woman. Can you tell 
me, Mrs. Crichton, why it is we have quite lost sight of 
her?” 

“ It is natural for her not to care to come here,” answered 
Dorothy. “ The house that my husband and I live in must 
be full of painful associations for Cecilia. I can understand 
her reluctance to visit us.” 

“It is a pity,” returned Phillips; “those morbid feelings 
ought always to be combated. Natural, no doubt, they are, 
but Mrs. Digby is a wise woman — she has intelligence beyond 
the average: she ought to use it to conquer herself.” 

“ I never knew anyone conquer herself more effectually 
than Cecilia,” replied Dorothy. “ For my part, I have only 
one complaint to make against her, and that is her reluctance 
to allow Nance to visit us.” 

Phillips walked over to the mantelpiece and leaned against 
it. He was still a very handsome man, but there were lines 
of discontent round his eyes and lips. 

“I agree with you,” he said, after a pause. “Little Nance 
Digby ought to nave many friends: her mother makes a 
mistake in rejecting the kindly feeling that those who knew 
her father would gladly extend to her. My wife and I, for 
instance, have a very great affection for Nance.” 


MAN AGAINST WOMAN. 


355 


“ And so have I,” said Dorothy. She moved restlessly. 
“There is no use discussing the matter,” she continued; 
“ Cecilia has her own views, and she is a determined woman. 
You may suppose,” she added, with a burst of feeling, “ that 
if you are willing to do all in your power for little Nance, my 
husband and I are even more anxious to befriend her. We 
owe her mother so much, so very much.” Dorothy colored 
and paused abruptly. 

Phillips gave her a quick glance, then his eyes drooped; she 
had caught an eager gleam in them, and hastened to turn the 
conversation. 

“ One moment before we talk on other matters,” said 
Phillips. “ Mrs. Digby has her own reasons for wishing to live 
a life of retirement, but I cannot understand her strange wish 
to cut herself off from all her old friends. Neither the Lan- 
casters, nor Helen and I, even know her present address.” 

“ It is very wrong of Cecilia,” said Helen, “ to keep herself 
so complete!}' in the background. I have only seen her three 
times since her husband’s death — once in the country and twice 
at my mother’s — and she has positively refused, on the two 
occasions when we met her at Harford Square, to tell us where 
she lived.” 

“ She had good reasons, no doubt,” Dorothy replied. 

“You know her address, Mrs. Crichton, don’t you ? ” asked 
Phillips. 

“ I do.” 

Phillips paused again ; his next remark came out with a 
certain hesitation. 

“ Would it be a great breach of trust to give it to me ? ” 
he asked then. 

“ It would,” she replied, with a flash in her eyes. “ If you 
like to write to her I will forward your letter; if you wish, 
also, I will write and ask her if she has any objection to see- 
ing you. You cannot expect me to do more.” 

“I cannot,” he answered, in a penitent tone. “ I really do 
want to see Mrs. Digby on a special matter in which I can 
render her material assistance. You must forgive my asking 
an indiscreet question. I only did it out of zeal for our 
mutual friend.” 

Phillips soon after left the room, and Helen, after a brief 
pause, turned and spoke in a low voice to Dorothy. 

“ Do you know,” she said, “ that there are very strange 
rumors afloat about Cecilia ? ” 


350 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“ I never believe rumors,” replied Dorothy, in a constrained 
voice. 

“ You must at least have heard of these,” said Helen. 
“ They have reached us through more than one source. You 
know that James sees poor patients for an hour on two morn- 
ings in the week. Some of them come from the neighborhood 
where Cecilia lives. We have a new housemaid, too, who 
has heard of her.” 

Dorothy rose from her seat. “ Whatever you may have 
heard, Helen,” she said, “ you may be quite sure that Cecilia’s 
deeds belong to the light. She has her own reasons for not 
talking about the way in which she spends her time, but I 
think that we who love her ought to trust her.” 

“ Of course I trust her,” replied Helen, “ but the fact is my 
husband doesn’t. I don’t mind telling you in confidence, 
Dorothy, that I fail utterly to comprehend James’s attitude 
toward Cecilia. He admires her very much, but he likes to 
hear things against her. He is eager about these rumors, he 
is anxious to get all the information in his power with regard 
to them.” 

“ Will you tell me exactly what is said about Mrs. 
Digby?” 

“ I will tell you, for I know you won’t make mischief. 
Cecilia has a district of very poor people near Bloomsbury. 
She visits her district daily, going from house to house with 
books and medicines and nourishment, and all those little 
things that the sick poor value.” 

“ The rumors seem commonplace,” said Dorothy. “ Cecilia 
is a model district visitor. Why not?” 

“ But she does more,” proceeded Helen, lowering her voice. 
“ The doctors order certain medicines, and Cecilia throws 
them away; the doctors give up certain patients, and Cecilia 
cures them. Nobody knows what she does, but the people 
who have been almost dying get well. Our servant — Rhoda 
is her name — gives a wonderful account of her little brother’s 
recovery; he had got some affection of the bones, which 
caused most intense and painful inflammation. He was sent 
to one hospital and another, and the doctors had a very bad 
opinion of him. Cecilia saw him and took him in hand, and 
now he is well, quite well and strong. Rhoda blesses Mrs. 
Digby, and says that she and hers look upon her as an angel 
of light. But in other cases she has not been so successful. 
What does she do ? Is there the slightest truth in the rumors 


MAN AGAINST WOMAN. 


35 1 


which grow and grow, and which reach even us ? What is 
the matter, Dorothy ? How pale you look.” 

“ I will tell you why I look pale,” retorted Dorothy. 
“ Because Cecilia Digby is giving up her entire life to a 
noble cause, and she is going to be basely misunderstood. 
Helen, you must crush those rumors; they bode no good 
whatever to our friend.” 

Dorothy soon afterward went away, and Phillips returned 
to the drawing room and began to talk to his wife. 

“ Well,” he said, “ did you speak of the rumors to Mrs. 
Crichton ? ” 

“ I did,” she replied, glancing at him timidly. “ Dorothy 
seemed displeased and a little — a little put out.” 

“She didn’t deny them, however?” 

“ How could she ? Cecilia does spend all her time in 
doing good. James, I want to say something. I won’t go on 
with this.” 

“ Won’t go on with what, my dear ? ” 

“ I won’t act the spy any longer. You want me to ferret 
out things about Cecilia. I refuse to be your tool. Can’t 
you let my cousin alone? What matter how she spends her 
time ? It is no affair of ours.” 

Phillips gazed steadily at his wife for half a minute. 
Her little flash of bravery was quickly quenched by his 
glance. 

“ You can do as you please,” he said coldly. “I believe I 
can obtain the information that I require without any further 
help from you.” 

He went dow r n to his consulting room, murmuring some 
ugly words under his breath. 

“ One thing is quite plain,” he said presently, half aloud. 
“ Cecilia Digby has read her husband’s papers to some pur- 
pose, and is using his remedy for consumption with marked 
success in her district. Such a remedy in a woman’s hands is 
highly dangerous ! Her conduct is mad. Oh ! what might 
not Mrs. Crichton reveal if she chose ? She w'ould have 
been in her grave by now but for — but for that marvelous 
discovery which ought to be mine. I am convinced of this 
fact, although Crichton reveals nothing. Perhaps he knows 
nothing. Once I tried to question him, but I quickly saw it 
was a subject into which he would not enter. I think I have 
got a clew to Mrs. Digby’s address. I will go to see her to- 
morrow or next day. This discovery must be taken from 


358 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


her; by main force, if necessary. Now then, what are the 
odds ? A man with money and average brains, and a woman 
with no money, but brains far above those usually given to 
her sex. I expect the odds are pretty even. Man against 
woman: who will win ? ” 

CHAPTER II. 

ONE WOMAN’S CURSE. 

Mrs. Crichton, in the softest and prettiest summer costume, 
sat in her open carriage, and desired her coachman to drive her 
to a certain part of Bloomsbury. She got out at the top of a 
long street, took a basket from the carriage, desired her servants 
to come to the same spot and fetch her in two hours from now, 
and walked down the street with a quick, light step. 

Presently she found herself standing in the porch of a tall, 
old-fashioned house. A woman of the usual landlady type 
opened the door. Dorothy smiled at her as if she was an old 
friend, and ran quickly up the stairs of the old house to the top 
story. 

She turned the handle of a door which directly faced the 
stairs, and entered a low, long, and pleasantly furnished sitting 
room. One of the windows was open, and the air that came in 
was fresh, for it blew over the tops of the opposite houses and 
brought a faint touch of the distant country on its wings. 

A child sat by the open window — a tall, pale child. She 
had a mass of sunny hair falling down her back, and her gray 
eyes had a bright, sweet, and yet pathetic expression. Her 
little mouth had patient curves about it. Her somewhat hollow 
cheeks brightened when she saw Mrs. Crichton. She sprang 
up from her seat by the window, rushed to her, and kissed her 
affectionately. 

" Mother is out,” said Nance, “ but I expect her back every 
moment. I am so very, very glad that you have come, 
Dorothy.” 

“ Why are you here by yourself, Nance ? I thought you and 
Henny-Penny were inseparables.” 

“ Oh, no ! I am too old to have a nurse with me now, am I 
not ? Henny-Penny has gone away.” 

“ My dear Nance ! ” 

“You need not pity me, Dorothy ; I think I rather like it. 
It was I who asked mother to send her away. She was rather 
a trouble to mother lately.” 


ONE WOMAN’S CURSE. 


359 


“ Why so ?” 

Nance lowered her tone. 

“ She began to ask questions about the cures,” she said. 

“ I always expected her to do that,” said Dorothy, seating 
herself near the child. “ But she would be sure to take your 
mother’s part.” 

“ Oh yes, oh yes. She loved mother, but she didn’t under- 
stand her. She used to go downstairs, and Mrs. Morton, our 
landlady, spoke about funny rumors, and about mother being 
quite the best doctor in the neighborhood ; and Henny-Penny 
used to get a sharp look on her face, and she would speak to 
mother about what was said, although I begged of her not, 
and mother got worried and anxious. At last we gave poor 
Henny-Penny a present, and told her she might go back to the 
country. I don’t suppose she will ever come to London again. 
I do miss her, of course, but I don’t let mother see it.” 

“ It is very bad for you to be alone, Nance,” said Dorothy. 
“ If your mother is out most of the day, will she not let you 
come and pay me a visit ?” 

“ I could not do that, Dorothy. I am not really lonely, and 
I would not leave my mother for the world. I always do my 
best to distract her mind from her cures, and I have made up 
a jolly plan lately. I find it does her heaps of good.” 

“ What is your plan, darling ? ” 

“ I make up a story every day while mother is out, and I tell 
it to her each evening after tea. I have a lot to do in making 
up a fresh story every day, for you know the kind of stories 
that mother ought to hear are a little difficult — I have to avoid 
so many things.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ Can’t you understand ? I must on no account speak about 
sick people, or doctors, or medicines, or any of the things that 
I know most about. You see, what I want to do is to turn 
mother’s thoughts away from the things she is doing all day, 
and from the things she is studying all night ; and as I am 
really very ignorant it isn’t easy.” 

“ i shouldn’t think it was. How is it possible for your 
thoughts to have a wide range, shut up here all by yourself, 
you poor little white flower ? ” 

“ I never had much color, you know that, Dorothy ; but I 
am perfectly well and strong. I am not the least bit of anx- 
iety to my mother, and nothing makes me so glad as to think 
of that ; for you remember, Dolly, when father went away 


360 


THE MEDICINE LADT. 


that time he told me I was to take care of mother, and it is 
the greatest possible comfort to feel that I am obeying 
father.” 

Dorothy rose from her chair and looked out of the window. 

“ All the same, it is a very bad life for you, dear,” she said. 
“ I must try and persuade your mother to let you come and 
pay me a visit. I won’t keep you long ; but when I get you 
to my house I am going to give you heaps of new ideas for 
your stories, and brighten you up in every way. There, 
don’t pucker your poor little brows ; I won’t worry you about 
it at this moment. I am going to stay with you quite a long 
time this afternoon. See what I have brought with me. 
Lovely flowers, are they not ? and these are strawberries, and 
here is cream — I mean to have tea with you and mother pres- 
ently — oh ! and here is a parcel quite for you alone.” 

“ A parcel ! I love parcels ! What can be in it ? ” 

“ Don’t open it until I have gone. You will find new books, 
a fresh box of colors, and some sheets of drawing paper, that 
is all. By the way, Nance, you are not giving up your 
music?” 

“ I play my violin sometimes ; but mother doesn’t care to 
listen to it. I used to love music more than anything else in 
the world, but now I make up stories and draw pictures. I 
have given mother a great many pictures to pin up in her 
room lately.” 

“ Well, don’t get that sad look on your face ; let us have 
a cheerful time, and talk together as if we were children. 
Don’t you remember when you and I used to play at being 
the same age long ago ? ” 

“Yes ; it is a very long time ago, isn’t it ? ” 

“ I suppose it is ; although it doesn’t seem long to me.” 

“ It does to me. That was before the thing happened that 
cut my life in two. There came a dreadful day when every- 
thing changed and something went out of my life. I am not 
really sad, but I am different ; that is all. Dorothy, do you 
know that father’s beautiful picture is gone ? ” 

“Your father’s portrait, my dear? The one painted by 
Millais?” 

“ Yes, that beautiful, beautiful picture. It used to hang 
over the mantelpiece, and I had lots of comfort from it. 
Whenever I wanted to know exactly what to do, I used to 
look at the picture, and it seemed as if father was speaking to 
me. Well, it’s gone now ; mother has put it away. It was my 


ONE WOMAN'S CURSE. 


361 


fault, too, and I am rather unhappy about it, though I try not 
to be.” 

“ Don’t cry, Nance dear,” said Dorothy. “ I cannot under- 
stand your mother not wishing to have that portrait always 
close to her.” 

“It was my fault,” continued Nance. “ I was looking at it 
one day when mother came into the room. She came up and 
saw me ; I didn’t want her to ; I used always to keep my 
eyes turned away from it when she was by ; but she saw me 
that time, and her face got very, very white, although she 
didn’t speak a word. The next morning when I came down- 
stairs the picture was gone. I don’t dare to say anything to 
mother, but I do miss it ! ” 

“ Of course you do, you poor little darling. Nance, my dear, 
wdien your mother comes in I mean to have a long talk with 
her. Do you mind leaving us together for a little ? ” 

“No, I can go up to my roqm and make up my story for 
to-night. I haven’t finished it yet. It is so difficult to tell 
the sort of story that exactly suits mother.” 

“Tell me how you manage. I would give anything to 
make up stories. How do you set about yours ? ” 

“ I sit by the window and watch the people as they pass by. 
There is one very nice looking old gentleman who walks down 
the street every morning about ten o’clock. He has gray 
hair, and a gold watch chain, and a long black coat. I have 
put him into lots of my stories. Sometimes a pretty girl 
goes by, but not often. There is one I know pretty well by 
this time. She has brown hair and a rather pale but nice face. 
She is in the story too ; I have made her into a sort of gover- 
ness, and she is very poor, and she has a little sister at home 
who loves her very much. She and the little sister are quite 
well — it would never do to make them ill, only sometimes I 
do want to give the little girl a cold, but I daren’t. Mother 
always gets that frown between her eyes if I do. Then, of 
course, I have a young man in the story. He is like cousin 
George, rather jolly, and with a red face. He is not hand- 
some a bit, but mother always laughs when I talk about him, 
so I use him in most of my stories, for it is most important to 
make mother laugh. I have a little girl, too ; but I have 
almost used her up. She has black hair and black eyes, she is 
very mischievous, and she hates her lessons. She is quite a 
naughty kind of little girl, and the young man with red hair 
is her uncle, and the pale, pretty girl teaches her, and, and 


362 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


You can see for yourself, Dorothy, that ray stories are monot- 
onous, for I have the same old man, and the same young man, 
and the same pretty big girl and the same naughty little girl in 
every story, and I am dreadfully afraid that mother will get 
tired of them at last.” 

“ Let us think of some fresh characters,” said Dorothy. 
“We might have ” 

“ That is mother’s step on the stairs,” said Nance. “ I am 
so glad ; I thought she would be home early.” 

Nance rushed to the sitting room door and threw it open. 
Mrs. Digby, dressed quietly in gray, entered the room. It 
was more than a year now since she had left off her widow’s 
mourning. She had been censured for this act among her 
friends, but Cecilia Digby had long ago passed the point that 
regards censure with uneasiness. Her face was too pale to 
suit the color which she wore, but on seeing Dorothy it 
brightened visibly, some of the old loveliness returned to it, 
she looked ten years younger, and the voice in which she 
spoke was both strong and cheerful. 

“ How nice you look, Cecilia ! ” exclaimed Dorothy, kissing 
her friend with much affection. 

Mrs. Digby laughed. 

“ As to my looking nice,” she said, “ that is neither here 
nor there. I have no doubt that I look what I feel — quite 
well. No, I don’t notice the heat. Perhaps it is because I 
take everything quietly. I take things very quietly now.” 
She suppressed a sigh, and turned to smile down on her little 
daughter. 

Nance Digby’s gray eyes were fixed upon her mother’s face 
as if she would read her innermost soul. When the mother 
smiled, the child began to dance lightly about the room. 

“ Dolly is goingto stay to tea,” she said. “ She has brought 
cream and strawberries ; and mother, mother, do look at these 
lovely flowers ! I have a parcel here, too, mother. I haven’t 
opened it yet, but Dolly says there are two new books inside, 
and a fresh box of colors, and some drawing paper. Isn’t it 
lovely?” 

“ Yes, my sweet, anything is more than lovely that brings 
such smiles to your face. Is it true, Dorothy, that you are 
going to stay to tea with us ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Mrs. Crichton, “ I am going to give myself 
that pleasure. The strawberries and cream have really been 
brought for my selfish gratification. Cecilia, dear, will you 


ONE WOMAN'S CURSE. 


363 


please take that chair by the open window — just here, where 
you can feel the fresh breeze, and Nance and I, who have been 
absolutely lazy for the last half hour, will bustle about and 
get you a nice cup of tea.” 

Cecilia smiled again. She sat down at once in the chair in- 
dicated, unfastened her bonnet strings, and, taking off her 
bonnet, laid it on the table which stood near. She also 
loosened the long, plain gray cloak which she wore over her 
gray dress, and letting it drop from her shoulders, lay back in 
the deep chair and watched, with a face full of peace, the ac- 
tive movements of Dorothy and little Nance. 

Mrs. Digby looked older than her years, but still hers was 
the sort of face that men would turn and look at twice ; that 
women would watch and smile at, and gradually open strange 
confidences to : for the face retained all its old sweetness, and 
to that look of sweetness was added now one of high resolve 
and even power. 

The light in her eyes to-night was almost happy. The sad- 
ness that lingered round her lips added a touch of pathos to 
her strange beauty. Cecilia’s was the loveliness of soul, for 
her faded color, the hollows in her cheeks, the slight irregu- 
larity of her features, quite shut her out from the mere beauty 
of form. 

When tea was over, Nance went to her own bedroom, hug- 
ging Dorothy’s parcel in her arms. The moment she left the 
room Mrs. Crichton pulled a low chair forward and sat down 
at Cecilia’s feet. 

“ Now, Cecil,” she began, “ I am going to be quite plain, 
and even blunt, with you.” 

Cecilia slightly winced. 

“ Bluntness is another word for pain,” she said. “ I feel 
quite strong and happy at the present moment. Must you 
give me pain to-day, Dolly ? Yes, I see by your face that 
you must. It is something like telling a patient that the sur- 
geon’s knife is to be used on him. Are you quite inexorable? ” 

“ Yes, quite, for the operation is necessary.” Dorothy’s 
voice slightly trembled. “ But I will be very quick about it,” 
she added. “ If I could apply chloroform I would, but as I 
can’t do that, I promise to be very expeditious in cutting off 
the limb.” 

“ Begin, begin,” said Cecilia, patting her knees restlessly. 
“ To a certain extent I always live over a precipice. Take the 
ground from under my feet, Dolly, if you must.” 


364 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“ What a lot of metaphors we employ,” said Dorothy, with 
a smile that quickly faded. “ 0 Cecilia, if there is anything 
in the wide world that I hate, it is the thought of giving you 
pain. You know that, don’t you ? ” 

“ I do, perfectly well.” 

“ And this will give you pain, but it is what we always ex- 
pected. Cecilia, what we so often feared might happen has 
happened. You are being talked about. I was at the 
Phillipses’ yesterday. Dr. Phillips came into the room ; he 
spoke of you, and begged me to give him your address.” 

“You would never do that, Dorothy?” replied Mrs. 
Digby. 

“Need you ask? I think I hate Dr. Phillips just as cor- 
dially as you ever did.” 

Cecilia’s long, thin hand touched Dorothy’s shoulder for 
half a minute. She drew it away quickly. 

“ If there is one thing I struggle for,” she said, “ it is com- 
plete self-repression. When I think of what I was in the old 
days and what I now am, I believe that one day I shall suc- 
ceed.” 

“ Why should you succeed, Cecil ? Why should you crush 
and starve and hide away that great heart which God has 
put into your breast? Dear Cecilia, I hate myself for coming 
to you with counsel, to you who have saved me. But I must 
give you advice to-day. I must warn you that } r ou are in 
danger. You are playing with edged tools. Dr. Phillips is a 
very dangerous man. He knows too much already ; rumors 
have reached him.” 

« About me ? ” 

“ Yes ; about you and the — the cure. A servant, called 
Rhoda Parsons, has gone to live at the Phillipses’. You 
saved the life of this girl’s little brother after all the doctors 
had given him up. Rhoda promised secrecy, of course, but 
she has not kept her word. How pale you look, Cecilia ! ” 

“ I am no paler than usual, Dorothy. Go on. What else 
have you heard ? ” 

“ A man came to see Dr. Phillips — you know he sees poor 
people twice a week for an hour in the morning. This man 
came, too, from your district. He also spoke of you and 
your cure. I could not find out his name.” 

“ The name does not matter,” said Mrs. Digby. She turned 
slightly away from Dorothy, and gazed out of the window. 
Her eyes, rather sunken in her head, looked dark, Some 


ONE WOMAN'S CURSE. 


365 


emotion evidently stirred them. Otherwise her face was 
perfectly passive. After a pause, she turned again to Doro- 
thy. 

“You said you would use the knife, and without chloro- 
form,” she said. “ Go on. What else have you heard of 
me?” 

“Not much else. You are a mystery to your friends, and 
you use a remedy unknown to the doctors, which works mira- 
cles, which raises the dying to life.” 

“ That is certainly true in some cases,” said Cecilia, in a low 
voice. “ A fortnight ago a little boy was brought back from 
the London Hospital. His mother cried and wrung her hands ; 
she came to me in a frantic state. I saw the child, and 
satisfied myself with regard to the nature of his complaint. 
He was suffering from one of the most painful forms which 
tubercular affection can take — an inflammatory condition of 
the bones. The child lived a life of torture. It is against 
the canons of our Christian religion to put human beings out 
of their misery. They must live on, in whatever state of 
suffering, until kind death releases them. The doctors had 
doomed this child to die, but kind Death was in no hurry for 
his prey. He would torture his victim as the cat does the 
mouse. The moment of release would come some day, but 
not yet. 

“The little victim was seven years old. He was a very 
pretty child — his mother had no other. 

“ She went on her knees to me, she took the skirts of the 
dress I am wearing and kissed them, and asked me to help 
her. I did not refuse, but I told her, for the sake of others, 
she must take the necessary oath of secrecy. She hesitated, 
looked frightened. They all fear that oath before they take 
it — would that it were unnecessary ! In the end she yielded. 
She swore on the Bible that she would never reveal my secret 
to living soul. I injected the first dose of the lymph under 
the child’s skin that evening.” 

“Yes, Cecilia ; and what happened?” 

“ The happiest results. I have come from the child’s bed- 
side now. His little baby lips kissed me, and I heard his 
laugh as I went downstairs. Try to imagine my feelings. 
Instead of a scream of agony, a gay laugh of pure joy came 
from those little lungs. I have injected the lymph now four 
times. The child grows better every day. The pains have 
almost disappeared,” 


366 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“ Cecilia, I always knew you were a very noble woman.” 

“ I don’t like you to say that. I have disobeyed my hus- 
band. I have dared to do what he would not attempt. He 
saw the danger, and stopped on the threshold. I, too, have 
seen danger, but I have ventured on. I feel like a woman 
with a mission. Each day I believe more fully in the remedy 
my husband has discovered. Come what will, now I must 
continue to use it.” 

“ In every case, Cecilia, has the remedy proved successful ? ” 

“ No ; and there my trouble lies. In some cases it has had 
little or no effect ; in others it has only produced a partial 
cure. In others, again, it has appeared to work wonders for 
a time, but the disease has broken out with fresh violence by 
and by. There is one very dark and sorrowful case about 
which I hate to think. The young man was consumptive. 
Perhaps he was too far gone in consumption. I administered 
the remedy. He grew worse, distinctly worse. He died sud- 
denly. His mother was quite certain, when she took the oath 
of secrecy, that her son would be restored to her. After the 
breath had left his body, she took me into the room where he 
lay and bade me look at him, and then she cursed me. It was 
very horrible. Afterward she went off her head — poor, poor 
soul ! ” 

“ But, Cecilia, does not such a circumstance frighten 
you ? ” 

“ It does, Dorothy ; it frightens me dreadfully.” 

“ But still you go on ? ” 

“ Still I go on.” 

“ Because ? ” 

“ Because the cases of cure are many ; the cases of relief 
many. Up to the present this is the one solitary instance in 
which my husband’s remedy has acted as a distinct poison, 
and hastened death.” 

“ That woman’s curse seems very dreadful to me,” said 
Dorothy ; “ I wonder that you can go on.” 

“ Has a medical man, with full diplomas from schools of 
surgery and medicine, never made a mistake ? He uses his 
favorite drug — it saves in one case, in another it only increases 
the mischief. He goes on, he still believes in the medicine. 
He takes extra care, that is all. So will I go on, with extra 
care.” 

“ Cecilia, you may be as angry with me as you please, but 
I am quite certain that you are not doing right. No one 


ONE WOMAN’S CURSE. 


367 


knows better than I the potency of your medicine, but it is 
dangerous of you to use it too often. A day may come when 
other women may curse you. I don’t think I could live under a 
curse. I don’t think you could hold up your head under many, 
Cecilia. Why don’t you take your remedy to Dr. Dickinson ? 
Why don’t you obey your husband’s dying directions ? ” 

“ You must not speak to me now of my husband’s dying 
words ; it is too late.” 

“ It is never too late to do what is right.” 

“ Yes, in this case it is quite ; it is too late now. If I took 
the papers to Dr. Dickinson he would shut them away in his 
drawer ; he would discredit my stories ; suffering would go 
on ; the majority would still die ; the remedy would lie use- 
less. I know this, Dorothy. It is useless for you to argue 
the point with me. The one case of poor Ralph Danby’s 
death would be thought more of than the fifty cases of whole 
or partial cure. I dare not run the risk ; I must go on help- 
ing people to the best of my lights. When my own husband, 
one of the most enlightened and foremost men of the day, 
feared to use the discovery he himself had made, how do you 
think Dr. Dickinson will treat it ? Enough, Dorothy ; my 
mind is made up.” 

“I won’t tempt you any more. How tired, how very tired, 
you look.” 

“ I feel tired. I have the sensation of every nerve being 
too tightly strung. Now, let us descend to commonplace.” 

“In a moment we will. One question first. Are you not 
afraid of Dr. Phillips? ” 

“ He cannot possibly do me any harm. I do not wish to be 
worried by him, so I keep my address a secret.” 

“ I am not sure that he cannot harm you, Cecil. He would 
if he could.” 

“ He would if he could,” replied Mrs. Digby. 

“ Suppose he hears of the death of that poor young man, 
and of the mother going out of her mind ? ” 

“ Even so, I do not think I shall fear him.” 

Cecilia rose from her chair as she spoke. 

" I refuse to say another word on the subject of my cure,” 
she said. “ Now I want to make a request of you, my dear, 
good little Dolly.” 

“What is that? You know I would do anything in the 
wide world for j^ou.” 


368 


THE MEDICINE LADY , . 


heart and a half. I want you to take Nance home with you ; 
I want you to give her a fortnight of unmitigated happiness.” 

“ With delight ! ” said Dorothy. “ It was what I longed 
to ask for.” 


CHAPTER III. 

DISAPPEARANCE. 

There was some little difficulty in inducing Nance to go 
home with Dorothy. The child’s face grew very pale when 
the idea was proposed to her. She hesitated, and was about 
to say in a quick, passionate voice, which was foreign to her 
gentle little nature, “ No, Dorothy, I can’t and won’t leave my 
mother,” but a glance at Cecilia made her quickly change her 
mind. She saw an expression on her mother’s face that made 
her run to her, clasp her arms tightly round her neck, and say 
in a low murmur : 

“ You wish it, that is enough. I will go.” 

“ Only for a few days, my darling,” whispered back Cecilia. 

She unclasped the child’s arms from her neck. Unlike her 
usual fashion, she said no loving words, but began to put to- 
gether the clothes Nance would require for her short visit. 

Half an hour afterward Dorothy and Nance went away, 
and Cecilia returned to her deserted sitting room. 

“ Now,” she said to herself, “ I have got one thing to do — one 
thing which must be accomplished quickly. I must leave 
these lodgings to-night.” 

She rang her bell, and asked the servant who answered the 
summons to beg the landlady to come to her. 

“ Mrs. Morton,” said Cecilia, when the good woman ap- 
peared, “ I want to leave these rooms to-night. I shall pay for 
them and keep my things in them for a week or two longer, 
but it is probable that I shall move altogether by and by.” 

“ I am sorry to hear it, Mrs. Digby. W e all know that you 
are not one of the common herd, ma’am — you has your differ- 
ences ; but, my husband and I, we like you, and we are sorry to 
part.” 

“ Thank you, Mrs. Morton. You have always been very 
kind and attentive. I am going out now, to look for other 
rooms.” 

“ Indeed, ma’am ! ” 

“ I don’t mind telling you quite simply why I do this.” 

“ Yes, Mrs. Digby.” 


DISAPPEARANCE. 


369 


“You know,” continued Cecilia, “that I have been greatly 
blessed in helping sick people to get well again. I hold in ray 
possession a certain secret which is very beneficial in a partic- 
ular class of illness.” 

“ Well now,” interrupted the landlady, “ I won’t deny that 
reports of the sort you mention have reached me. Some folks 
say it’s a prayer of faith you uses, Mrs. Digby ; others, again, 
that it’s the knife ; but whatever it is, the recoveries is almost 
akin to miracles. No doubt there is a great deal of talk on the 
matter, ma’am, and in consequence I have had some difficulty 
in letting my drawing rooms ; but 4 Never mind,’ I says to 
Morton when he speaks to me, 4 Mrs. Digby is like an angel, 
and stay she shall if she wants to.’ ” 

“ I am deeply grieved to have to go. I shall not be in a hurry 
about removing my furniture, but I can see that I must make 
a change. Mrs. Morton, I can tell you nothing, nothing what- 
ever, of what I do to help people to get well, but I am glad to 
make you one confidence which I trust you will respect. It is 
this — I mean to go on curing people.” 

“ Yes, ma’am ; it is but to look in your face to know that.” 

“Iam leaving here,” continued Cecilia, 44 because certain 
members, perhaps I ought to say a certain member, of the med- 
ical profession You know, of course, that my husband 

was a doctor ? ” 

44 Yes, ma’am. Who hasn’t heard of Dr. Digby ? ” 

44 My husband was one of the noblest men in the profession,” 
continued Digby’s widow, with a touching pathos which 
brought tears to the landlady’s eyes, 44 but there are some 
doctors who don’t in the least resemble him, and one of them 
is jealous of my cure. He wants to discover my address. That 
cannot be difficult, for I have always refused to be called by 
any name but that conferred on me by my dear, noble husband. 
This doctor will follow me here, for he has already got a clew, 
so I must go away immediately. I must go to-night.” 

“ Indeed, ma’am.” 

44 Mrs. Morton, if people come to make inquiries about me, 
you will promise to be very careful to give them no information 
whatever ? ” 

44 You may rely on me, ma’am.” 

“ Thank you, That will do.” 

The landlady left the room ; Cecilia put on her bonnet and 
cloak and went out. 

She was absent about half an hour. She came back then. 


370 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


and went up to her own bedroom, and packed some of her 
clothes in a small portmanteau. This task did not occupy her 
more than live or six minutes. Then, taking the key out of her 
pocket, she opened the door of that mysterious room, the inside 
of which no one but herself had seen for many a day. She was 
an hour and a half in this room, packing busily. 

At the end of that time, she asked Mrs. Morton to send for a 
cab. When the cabman came, he was entrusted with several 
large packages. These almost filled the interior of the cab, 
but Cecilia managed to squeeze herself in beside them, the door 
was shut, and the lumbering vehicle rolled away. Mrs. Digby 
left her lodgings in Bloomsbury exactly two hours after Doro- 
thy and Nance had gone away. 

Late that evening some one called at the Bloomsbury lodg- 
ings to inquire for Cecilia. 

“ Is Mrs. Digby in ? ” asked a voice. 

“ I don’t think so,” replied the slavey, who opened the door. 

“She lives here, does she not?” 

“You mean the Medicine Lady, sir? Oh, yes, but I don’t 
think she’s in to-night. I’ll go and inquire of my missis.” 

Mrs. Morton made her appearance in the hall. The person 
who had come to inquire for Mrs. Digby asked many questions, 
but the landlady was most discreet. She was only prepared 
to admit two facts : one, that Mrs. Digby was not in the house ; 
another, that she would not return to-night. Round and round 
these simple statements the stranger who stood on the door 
step metaphorically walked. He asked heaps of side ques- 
tions, but from no one direction could he induce Mrs. Morton 
to shed any further light on the simple sayings that Mrs. Digby 
did live in that house, but that she was not in at present, and 
the landlady could not tell when she would be back. 

There was nothing further to be gained, and the stranger 
went away. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE WHITE ANGEL. 

Mrs. Lancaster was just as famous as of old for her din- 
ner parties. She liked to have rather ponderous, rather long, 
rather heavy meals. She liked to invite a good number of 
guests, with no regard whatever to mutual affinities. She was 
as devoid of tact as she had ever been, and her visitors were 
sent down to dinner, the young mated with the old, the dull 


THE WHITE ANGEL. 


371 


with the clever, the extremely evangelical with those whose 
tendencies veered toward atheism. 

Mrs. Lancaster absolutely ignored the fact that to make a 
dinner party a success she must consult tastes and inclinations ; 
she must so couple her guests that they might enjoy not only 
the excellent fare that she placed before them, but that feast 
of soul which is far more difficult to obtain. 

Still, the ponderous dinners were duly attended, the 
invitations accepted, and the good meals eaten, and Mrs. 
Lancaster was spoken of as an excellent creature, who 
wore remarkably well, much better, indeed, than her daughter 
Millie, who had grown thin, angular, and discontented looking ; 
than Helen, who had not become old in the ordinary sense, but 
whose face plainly proclaimed to a censorious world that she 
had obtained a good deal in life, but had, somehow, altogether 
missed the best. 

Chatty, who had married a country gentleman, came up to 
town with her husband to attend a special dinner party. The 
Phillipses were there, as a matter of course. The Crichtons 
were also invited, and Nance, for whom even Mrs. Lancaster 
had a penchant, was present. 

Dorothy had done everything in her power to make Nance 
happy during her visit. The child looked grave the fii'st day 
— there were certain associations in the old house which 
affected her more than most people would have believed possi- 
ble — but the bravery of heart which was one of her strongest 
characteristics, and which she had inherited in a marked de- 
gree from her father, soon came to her aid. 

After saying to herself about half a dozen times, “ It is 
very wrong of me to feel lonely and unhappy,” she managed 
not only to subdue her feelings but to conquer them. Her 
mother wished her to stay with Dorothy ; she loved Dorothy, 
and would try to be a very bright and happy little girl, and 
collect a large fund of material for future stories to cheer her 
mother with. 

So Nance looked quite gay to-night as she stepped out of 
the Crichtons’ carriage and entered the big, dreary house in 
Harford Square. Her little face and figure were in marked 
contrast to all the other guests invited. She was the only 
child in the room. It was quite an innovation to have a 
child at a dinner party, and the numerous visitors were pleased 
when they saw the graceful little creature enter the large 
drawing room. 


372 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Dorothy had taken extreme pains with Nance’s dress. She 
was in the softest white. Her clouds of lovely hair fell round 
her face and rippled over her shoulders. 

Her father’s name was not yet forgotten by his friends, and 
when people whispered to each other, “ That pretty, graceful 
child is little Nance Digby — poor Dr. Digby’s little daugh- 
ter,” more than one of the company present came up to speak 
to Nance, and to kiss her, and give her a welcome for her 
father’s sake. She replied to all the remarks made to her in 
her quiet, dignified, half shy way. She was not a child to 
open her heart to strangers, however, and she very soon 
skipped away from the group of which she was the center to 
take George Lancaster’s big hand between both her own, and 
to say to him, in a confidential aside : 

“ May I sit by you at dinner, Cousin George ? ” 

“ To be sure you may, pussy,” he replied. “ I don’t know, 
of course, what arrangements my mother lias made, but if 
you hold my coat tails as we go down to dinner, I will squeeze 
in a little chair for you somehow at my end of the table.” 

Several guests had been invited to this dinner, and when 
Nance found herself occupying a corner between George 
Lancaster and a very stout, good-natured gentleman, she 
looked up the long table in pleased wonder. This seemed to 
Nance something like a public dinner, and she thought the 
occasion most interesting. She treasured up all she saw and 
heard as rich material for many future romances. She looked 
at the gentleman at her left hand side, and came to the conclu- 
sion that he would do’to occupy a central position in one of her 
stories. He was not like Dr. Phillips, he was not like Crichton, 
he was not like any doctor Nance had ever seen, and yet, at 
the same time, he was quite different from the old man in the 
shabby frock coat and heavy gold watch chain who had 
figured so often, so very often, in her glowing tales. 

“ I’ll put him in,” she said under her breath. “ He’ll be 
quite a nice change for mother. I wonder if he’d mind my 
studying him a little bit. He seems to like his fish very much, 
and I never care for any. I wonder if I might look at him 
while he is eating it.” 

Nance’s bright eyes, shining steadily out of her grave 
face, were now fixed on the stout gentleman. He ate two 
mouthfuls of fish, then succumbed to their magnetic battery. 

“ I’ll be quite ready in a minute, my dear,” he said, turning 
his head toward Nance and favoring her with a quick, com- 


THE WHITE ANGEL. 

ical glance. 44 You have a great deal to say to me, haven’t 
you ? ” 

“ No,” she replied, in a gentle voice. “ It was your face I 
wanted to study. I like best making up the speeches myself.” 

“ Good heavens ! ” exclaimed the old man, under his breath. 
44 Is that sweet, intelligent looking child a lunatic ? ” 

The idea disturbed him. The salmon he was eating was 
quite to his taste, but he did not finish it. He sent his plate 
away, and refused the entree. 

Then he turned to Nance. 

“ It would be very impolite,” he said, “ to accuse you of too 
much youth. I am sure you are a very old little girl. I pre- 
sume from your last remark, however, that you are an artist.” 

“ Because I said I wanted to study your face ? ” asked 
Nance. “ I am sure you are really very kind, so I don’t mind 
telling you. I want to put you into a story.” 

44 Good gracious, what a terrible little girl you are ! You 
are a wolf in sheep’s clothing. You don’t look the character 
a bit, you know. No one would suppose, to look at you, that 
you meant to take all my foibles and pull them to pieces.” 

Nance knit her brows. 

44 1 don’t know what foibles are,” she said. 44 But perhaps 
they are a sort of merchandise. I do so hope you are a mer- 
chant, for you look exactly like one, and that’s what I’m 
making you up to be.” 

The stout gentleman laughed, but not unkindly. 

44 1 am sorry to disappoint you, my dear,” he said. 44 1 am 
not a merchant, I am a doctor. My name is Dickinson.” 

Nance sank back in her chair. 

44 I’m awfully disappointed,” she said, after a pause. “ I 
did not think you looked like one of them. It is so difficult 
to get away from them ; they seem to meet you at every 
turn.” 

44 But really, my dear, really it is a most honorable profes- 
sion.” 

44 1 know. It’s most noble ; but, all the same, I am disap- 
pointed. You’d have done so beautifully, and now you are 
no use at all.” 

44 But why ? Can’t you put a doctor into your book ? ” 

44 It isn’t a book, it’s*a story to tell aloud to mother.” 

44 And why may not mother listen to a story about a doc- 
tor ? He’s a very nice sort of fellow, I should say. Most 
suitable for a story. You can do so much with him — use him 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


3V4 

up in all sorts of fashions : have a sick child and get him to 
cure her ; have a railway accident and get him to mend the 
broken bones. I declare I’m becoming quite inventive myself 
in your company, little girl. Don’t you think you can make 
a large use of me even though I am a doctor ? What ! you 
shake your head ? ” 

“ It can’t be done,” said Nance. “ I can never tell mother 
stories about doctors, she can’t bear to hear them. You’d 
have done nicely if you had been a merchant.” 

Dr. Dickinson helped himself to a portion of the next dish 
that was handed to him, then he turned to Nance. 

“ I am sorry I can’t get myself changed for you,” he said ; 
“ but although I cannot be quite as useful to you as I hoped, 
there is no reason why we should not be friends. I have a 
kind of idea that I have seen a face like yours before. Do 
you mind telling me your name ? ” 

“ I am called Nance Digby.” 

“ Digby ? Digby ? Bless my soul ! Are you poor Lau- 
rence Digby’s little daughter ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Nance. 

“ Bless me ! who’d have thought it ? I had not an idea he 
left a child of your age. This is interesting, very. This quite 
accounts for the marked originality of those small utterances, 
and the expression in those eyes,” continued Dickinson, under 
his breath ; “ the child has got Digby’s eyes. Upon my word, 
I’m quite glad I’m sitting near her — a nice child, very. ” 

Aloud, he said, “ Do you mind my shaking hands with you, 
little Nance Digby ? We needn’t make a fuss, you know, or 
disarrange the table. Just put your small paw into mine for 
a minute. Upon my word, I am glad to make the acquaint- 
ance of your father’s daughter. You have something to live 
up to, little girl. That father of yours was a good man. 
When all is said and done, no one can give his fellow-creature 
a heartier tribute than is comprised in the words, ‘ a good 
man.’ I am right glad I have met you, Miss Nancy, even 
though I am no use for the story.” 

The lady at Dr. Dickinson’s other side thought him an 
unmitigated bear, for he scarcely spoke to her, devoting 
all his attention to the shy, grave little neighbor at his 
right. 

Nance went upstairs with the other ladies in a state of rap- 
ture. She had enjoyed her dinner immensely, she said. Had 
the time been long to her ? No, it had been short, very short. 


THE WHITE ANGEL. 


375 


She only hoped Dr. Dickinson would come up to the drawing 
room and allow her to talk to him once more. 

Several of the ladies present noticed the little girl. Nance 
thought the atmosphere of Mrs. Lancaster’s dull old house 
quite bright and genial, she skipped from one to another of 
the guests, her usually shy tongue was loosened. She had 
always a way of saying quaint things, and she said them still, 
but her manner was joyous and animated, her eyes very 
bright. 

The combination of both mother and father in her face 
made it a particularly attractive one, and there was no one 
present on that evening who did not say a cordial word to the 
child, or who did not regard her with interest on account of 
her father. 

If Nance had one qualification more than another in her 
semewhat composite little nature, it was a marked aptitude for 
business. The business of her life at present was to make up 
stories to comfort her mother. She had gained some ma- 
terial for those romances during the dinner hour — not all she 
had hoped, of course, but still a good deal. It occurred to 
her now that she might find some picture-books on a certain 
table that would further aid her vivid imagination. Millie 
Lancaster had developed of late years a taste for a certain class 
of periodical literature. She bought half a dozen periodicals 
monthly, and Nance knew from old experience where to find 
them. She slipped away to the far end of the inner drawing 
room, and, gathering a pile of Good Words , Little Folks , and 
other journals round her, became absorbed in the interesting 
task of skimming the cream from their contents. 

It was also her nature to throw her whole heart into w T hat 
she was doing. There were some interesting pictures of ani- 
mals in different positions, wearing different costumes, and 
altogether conducting themselves as unlike nature as possible, 
which especially riveted her attention. It was roused at last 
to a recollection of the present by hearing her own name 
spoken. She looked up hastily. Two men were standing 
with their backs to her. She recognized them both. One 
was Dr. Dickinson, the other Phillips. They had evidently 
not seen her, for she had hidden herself away in a shadowy 
corner. They were talking gravely together, and about her. 
She felt horrified at being in the position of a listener, but 
a certain timidity kept her from moving. To get out of her 
corner, she must have told the two men who were standing in 


376 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


her path that she had overheard some of their words. She 
wondered if it would be right for her to hold her fingers to 
her ears. Then a fresh remark was made that made her for- 
get prudence and everything else in a pained, astonished 
curiosity. 

“ There is not a doubt of it,” said Phillips. “ I have it on 
the best possible authority. Mrs. Digby is using her hus- 
band’s discovery extensively.” 

“They are talking about the cure,” whispered Nance, 
under her breath. She clasped her hands, the color fled from 
her face. She remembered another occasion when she had 
acted the part of a terrified little eavesdropper. 

“ Shall I tell them I am here ? ” she said half aloud. “ No, 
no ! I won’t ! I can’t ! Shall I stop my ears ? No, I must 
listen.” 

Dr. Dickinson shrugged his shoulders. He made some re- 
mark that Nance lost. Phillips resumed again: 

“ You must take my word for it, Dr. Dickinson. Digby 
made some valuable discoveries, from a scientific standpoint, 
with regard to tubercular disease. For some inscrutable 
reason he allowed his ideas to lie fallow. As far as I can tell 
he never employed them on human subject. It may have 
been his intention to perfect them by and by. He left most 
valuable papers. Mrs. Digby has a district of poor people 
somewhere near Gray’s Inn Fields. A servant from her dis- 
trict has lately come into my house. She has spoken to my 
wife and told her of the wonderful lady — the ‘ Medicine Lady ’ 
they call her — who effects cures in cases of consumption which 
the doctors can never attempt. The whole thing is plain to 
me — Mrs. Digby is making a dangerous use of her husband’s 
papers. She has herself absolutely vanished from society, and 
she even refuses to give her present address to her friends.” 

“But, as I told you just now, I saw her little daughter at 
dinner — she sat next me. A particularly bright, charming 
child.” 

“Exactly. You know the Crichtons? Mrs. Crichton is 
about the only person of our acquaintance who knows where 
to find Mrs. Digby. She went to see her about a week ago, 
and brought the child back with her. The child is a stanch 
little soul, and will reveal nothing. There is no doubt what- 
ever that Mrs. Digby is pursuing a most dangerous course.” 

“ It could be stopped, of course,” said Dr. Dickinson, “but 
my private opinion is that this is a case of great cry and little 


THE WHITE ANGEL. 


377 


wool. Digby was known to be a specialist. He and I have 
had many a long and interesting talk over tuberculosis and 
its thousand and one cruel guises. I know he was a fore- 
most man in every respect, an accurate thinker, fond of re- 
search ; but, as far as I could gather from the long conversa- 
tions we had together, his principal idea with regard to phthisis 
was that high latitudes and a dry, bracing air were more bene- 
ficial than the time-honored plan of sending patients to relax- 
ing and hot climates.” 

“He went farther than that,” said Phillips. “He went 
much farther ; I know it for a positive fact.” 

Dickinson fixed his eyes for a moment with a keen glance on 
Phillips’s face. Nance did not dare to move a finger. 

“ You have some reason for speaking as you do,” he said. 

Phillips hesitated for a moment. 

“ I can assure you,” he said after a brief pause, during 
which Nance felt quite sure that the doctors must have heard 
her heart beating, “ I speak with authority. Digby made a 
discovery to which he alluded to me in moments of great con- 
fidence. You know, of course, we were next-door neighbors. 
It was my privilege at one time, before his remarkable abili- 
ties were known, to render him assistance of a really valuable 
nature. I do not care to go into that. All I did was repaid 
by the delight I felt in the man’s success. But he himself 
never ceased to consider that he owed me a debt of gratitude. 
That, doubtless, was the reason for his giving me his confi- 
dence, which he did to a large extent.” 

“ And that?” said Dickinson, in a tone of strong interest. 

“Pardon me; I am not at liberty to repeat his words, even 
to you. Suffice it to say that he made a distinct discovery 
with regard to the cure of consumption, which would electrify 
the world if it were known.” 

“ You astonish and pain me,” said Dickinson. “ The Digby 
I knew was the last man in the world to keep such a discov- 
ery to himself.” 

“ He had very strong feelings on that point. I am scarcely 
at liberty to enter into them, but I think I am justified in 
saying that his strongest hope for the future was that he and 
I might work the discovery together.” 

Dr. Dickinson favored Phillips with a quick, sharp glance. 
He had his own reasons for believing that Phillips was, at 
least, exaggerating the truth. 

“Digby and that man would never have made common 


378 


TEE MEDICINE LADY. 


cause together,” he murmured under his breath. Aloud, he 
said, “ Then Digby’s death makes his discovery useless.” 

“ That is by no means the case. No man that I have ever 
met made more accurate and copious notes than Laurence 
Digby. Could I obtain those notes, and could I also receive 
the aid of a scientific man — such as yourself, for instance — I 
have no doubt that we could bring the thing to perfection.” 

“ Does Mrs. Digby refuse to show you her husband’s 
notes ? ” 

“She does, absolutely. I have failed to get her to see a 
trace of reason in my arguments. I have literally showered 
kindnesses on that woman, and she has met me with scorn. She 
is poor, and I have even gone the length of offering her a 
large sum of money for a sight of those papers. In vain.” 

“ She must be a fine creature,” muttered Dickinson under 
his breath. 

Nance buried her face in the sofa pillows, so afraid was she 
of uttering an exclamation. 

Aloud, Dickinson said, “ Mrs. Digby has, doubtless, her own 
strong reasons for what she is doing, and no one can interfere 
with her.” 

“ Then you approve of her practicing the thing herself ? ” 

“ I ? Good heavens, no ! A woman to make use of an in- 
complete discovery of that kind ! The thing is too mad even 
for contemplation.” 

“ This mad thing, however,” pursued Phillips, “ takes 
place many times in a week in a certain district in Blooms- 
bury.” 

“ You must be dreaming.” 

“ I am not. I state what I know. Mrs. Digby has van- 
ished from society, and lost herself to her friends. She re- 
fuses to give her address to anyone except Mrs. Crichton, 
who, by the bye, is largely under her influence. She practices 
her husband’s discovery in Bloomsbury on consumptive pa- 
tients.” 

“ This is a very serious thing, Phillips. If false, it is a 
gross libel on Mrs. Digby. Are you sure that you can sub- 
stantiate it ? ” 

“I can. I should not attempt to say what I do without 
absolute knowledge. We have a servant in our house who 
comes from the part of Bloomsbury visited by Mrs. Digby. 
She goes there at all hours, day and night, is spoken of by 
the name of the Medicine Lady, and is in much greater re- 


THE WHITE ANGEL. 


379 


quest than the doctors. Our servant’s brother was supposed 
to be dying of consumption, and Mrs. Digby did something 
which simply put him on his feet again. There are other 
cases where she has not been so successful; one, in especial, of 
a young man who died in great agony. He had a tendency 
to tuberculosis — only a tendency, mind you. He was his 
mother’s sole support. Mrs. Digby saw him, tried the medi- 
cine, about whose power she knew so little, and the young 
man was dead in a few weeks.” 

“ Your servant told you all this?” 

“ Not only my servant. Several of my poor patients come 
from Bloomsbury, and they all speak of the Medicine Lady 
and her strange cures. There is a sort of reserve about what 
they say which gives their statements all the more force. 
They seem unable or unwilling to give particulars of what is 
done, and they all speak of an oath of secrecy which each 
victim must take before he or she is put under the spell. Oh, 
it is too disgusting to think of Digby’s wife stooping to it ! ” 

“ Disgusting ! ” retorted Dr. Dickinson. “ It is worse. If 
half you say is true, the woman might be indicted for man- 
slaughter.” 

Someone called Dr. Phillips’s name, and the two men went 
away. 

Nance was free to come out of her corner. She rubbed her 
dazed eyes, and softly, on tiptoe, crept across the room to an 
open door. 

A good many fresh visitors had arrived for an evening en- 
tertainment which was to follow the dull dinner party. The 
stairs and landings were thronged with guests coming and 
going. 

No one noticed little Nance Digby as she went downstairs, 
through their midst, in her white dress, her hair floating back 
from her shoulders, her cheeks as white as her dress. She 
reached the hall ; the house door was open, there was all the 
confusion of many arrivals — no one thought anything about 
the child as she went down the outer steps into the street. 

A hansom driver, who was just turning away after receiving 
his fare, saw the little girl and bent toward her. 

“ I want you to take me to Bloomsbury,” said Nance. 
“ Have you a quick horse ? Can you go very fast ? ” 

“Yes, missy. Jump in. I’ll be no time in taking you 
round.” 

The man thought it odd that his little fare should have no 


380 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


wrap round her shoulders nor covering for her head, but he 
was far too philosophical to trouble himself about eccentrici- 
ties. He received the address which Nance shouted to him 
through the little door in the top of the hansom with taci- 
turnity, and proceeded to urge his horse to speed. 

In about a quarter of an hour from the time that Nance 
left Harford Square she was put down at the lodging house 
where her mother used to live. 

“ I hope your fare is not more than half a crown,” she 
called to the man, “ for that is all I have in my purse.” 

The fare was a shilling, but the man was content to accept 
the larger coin. He said “ Good-night ” to the little girl in a 
cordial voice, and urged his horse to great speed in order to 
get back once more to Harford Square. 

All the time she was driving back to her mother, Nance 
kept her terrified and indignant feelings to herself. Until 
half an hour ago, she had always felt a real affection for 
Phillips ; she had been much delighted with Dr. Dickinson 
during dinner ; but during the time when she had crouched 
on the sofa and listened to their conversation, the two men 
assumed the shape of monsters in her eyes. 

A great deal of what they said was beyond her comprehen- 
sion, but she had heard quite enough to fill her affectionate 
little soul with an agony of terror and indignation. From 
first to last they spoke against her mother. Nance never 
could fathom what went on in Cecilia’s heart. Many things 
were done which puzzled and pained the child, but nothing 
had ever yet happened to shake her loyalty. 

Her father was the noblest of men, and her mother was the 
noblest of women. Her father had discovered a marvelous 
cure for making sick people well ; and now that her father 
was dead, her mother was going on with the cure. 

These were the simple facts of the case. It was necessary 
to keep the tiling a secret, for there were some wicked, envious 
people in the world who would try to take the cure from her 
mother, to use it themselves ; but that anyone could speak of 
Cecilia as her little girl had just heard her spoken of, was too 
horrible to dwell upon. 

Mrs. Digby was in danger. Her cure might be taken from 
her, something awful might be done to her. Those cr.uel men 
used terrible words. What did they mean by saying that 
her mother might be indicted for manslaughter ? What was 
“to indict”? What was “manslaughter”? To slaughter 


THE WHITE ANGEL . 


381 


meant to kill ; but her mother did not kill people, she saved 
them from death. 

Nance must not lose a moment in warning her of the dan- 
ger which was so near. Thoughts something like these 
whirled through her brain as she drove in the hansom to her 
mother’s lodgings. 

She stood on the door step now and pulled the bell, her 
little heart in a tumult of passionate excitement and fear. 

“ It’s me, Mary Jane,” she said to the astonished slavey. 
“ Is my mother in ? ” 

*“ Why, no, Miss Nance, of course not. Lor’, miss, you do 
look elegant. My eyes, what a dress ! Come right in, Miss 
Nance ; missis will be right pleased to see you.” 

“ I can’t waste the time, Mary Jane. I want my mother. 
Where is she ? ” 

“ Don’t you know, Miss Nance ? Mrs. Digby has been 
gone for over a week.” 

“ Gone ? Mother gone away from this house ? You must 
have made a mistake.” 

“ Indeed, then, I hasn’t, miss, and I aint likely to. The 
worrits I has had to put up with, answering the front door 
knocker, and the scores of people coming and asking for your 
good mother, and me telling them that she warnt in and 
warnt likely to be, and they a-telling me back that I was 
lying to them. It aint likely I should make a mistake on 
that score, whatever else I fails in. You look white, missy, 
will you take a chair ? ” 

“No, thank you. If my mother is really not here, I’ll go 
away.” 

“ Wouldn’t you like to know where she has gone to ? Mrs. 
Morton will maybe tell you, although she denies that she 
knows anything to most other folks. Shall I run and ask her, 
miss ? ” 

“ No, it doesn’t matter. I don’t think Mrs. Morton can 
know, for I don’t, and I have no time to waste asking her 
questions. Perhaps mother is in her district, and I know 
some of the houses. Good-night, Mary Jane.” 

Nance walked gravely down the street. It was late at 
night, and she looked not unlike a fair little spirit in her soft, 
white draperies and cloudy hair. 

Mary Jane stood on the step to watch her. 

“ My sakes ! ” she said under her breath, “ to think of missy 
coming and going like that ! and never a bit of hat on, nor a 


382 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


wrop, nor nothing. Maybe I ought to have called a hansom 
for her, but where would I find one round these parts ? ” 

While Mary Jane stood hesitating, a sharp voice called her 
name from within. She was a much overworked slavey, and 
in attending to her duties she forgot Nance. 

The little girl continued to walk down the street, too much 
absorbed in her own thoughts to notice the astonished looks 
of the passers-by. 

It was very late now, and some half tipsy young men were 
reeling home. They stopped suddenly to bestow a rude 
compliment on the child. 

She gave them an uncomprehending, half frightened glance. 
One of them was about to lay his hand on her arm, when a 
ragged boy, with a gentleman’s heart, rushed forward eagerly, 
pushed the tipsy young man aside, and turning to Nance 
said : 

“ Can I do nothink for yer, missy? Never yer mind ’em, 
they has took more than they ought.” 

The boy’s dirty face wore a frank expression ; kindliness 
shone out of his eyes. He was a little knight-errant in spite of 
his rags, and a quick instinct told Nance that he was to be 
relied upon, and that he was absolutely at her service. 

“ I am looking for my mother,” she said, in a confidential 
tone. “ She has a district near here, and she helps to make 
sick people well.” 

“ Holy Moses ! ” said the boy. “ Yer don’t mean the Medi- 
cine Lady ? ” 

“ Yes, my mother is sometimes called the Medicine Lady. 
Do you know her ? ” 

“ Know her ? Rather. Did yer never ’ear ’er speak of 
Churchyard Billy ? That’s yer ’umble servant. That were 
the name I went by in these parts afore she took me in tow. 
Most folks call her the Medicine Lady, but I speaks of her as 
the ministering hangel.” 

“ I think you must have a very nice mind, boy,” said Nance 
with a gentle, sad little smile. 

“ I don’t know nothink ’bout that. Is there anything I can 
do for yer, missy ? Ef I may make so bold as to say the word, 
you aint the right sort to be round ’ere by yerself at this 
hour.” 

“ I know that,” replied Nance, still speaking very sadly. 
“ I have always been taken lots of care of, first by father and 
mother together, then by mother after father went to heaven ; 


THE WHITE ANGEL. 


383 


but you must know, boy, that there are times when a girl who 
is worth anything forgets all about herself.” 

“ I b’lieve yer,” said the boy ; “ yer’s the right sort, or I’m 
much mistook. But yer must be goin’ somewhere, missy, and 
the folks round ’ere is rough, and yer ’as no ’at on. Shall I 
take yer to hany place ? ” 

“ I want to find mother, very much. Do you think you 
could take me to her ? ” 

The boy reflected, and scratched his head with one hand. 

“ The lady’s often in Palmer’s Buildings at this hour,” he 
said. “ ’Spose we goes there fust ? May I take yer ’and, 
missy ? ” 

Nance held out her slim little fingers at once. The ragged 
boy clasped them. He thought he had never felt anything so 
soft as that little hand before. A queer feeling came over 
him — he felt humble and glad. While he was holding 
Nance’s white hand, the possibility of getting to heaven some 
day came over him. He said to himself : 

“There must be a corner for me up there some’ow, or a 
little white angel like this wouldn’t give me ’er ’and.” 

Presently they reached a poor part. The houses were close 
together, leaning toward one another at the tops ; the street 
was squalid. It was nearly midnight now, but in this place 
high life was still going on. Men, women, and children were 
swarming about the streets. Churchyard Billy very soon had 
a crowd following him. 

“ Never yer mind,” he whispered to Nance, “ they’ll none 
of ’em touch yer while yer’s along o’ me.” 

He was mistaken, however. Two loud-voiced women came 
up, and, putting their arms akimbo, stopped the way of the 
boy and child. 

“Yer let us pass,” said Churchyard Billy. 

They laughed, and one of them put out her rough hand to 
catch Nance’s hair. 

“ Yer let us pass,” said Billy again. “ This little gel is the 
child of the Medicine Lady. There ! ” 

The words acted as magic. The women fell away, one of 
them murmured a blessing on Nance’s head. The two chil- 
dren hurried forward. Presently they reached a very tali 
house, in better style than its neighbors. 

“ Yere are the Buildings,” said Billy. “ The Medicine Lady 
’as a sick gel as she’s curing at the top of the ’ouse. The 
gel’s a sort of cousin of mine — ’er name is Patty J ones. They 


384 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


used to call ’er Cough-away-Patty when they called me 
Churchyard Billy, hut she’ll get all right soon, I guess, for 
the Medicine Lady’s doing a power for ’er. You come along 
up, missy, there aint a one in this house as ’ud touch the ’air 
on yer ’ead.” 

“ I am not a bit afraid,” said Nance in a stout voice. 

She walked up the stairs, step after step, with her guide. 
They presently reached a roughly painted door, on which No. 
39 was painted in glaring white characters. A jet of gas was 
burning outside the door. Billy turned the handle. It re- 
sisted his efforts. Then he took his whole wiry little body 
and banged himself against it. Still there was an impene- 
trable silence. After a moment’s hesitation, he knelt down, 
and, putting his lips to the keyhole, began to shout : 

“ Patty, are yer in ? ” 

“Yes,” answered a voice very high, thin, and squeaky. 

“ It’s me — Billy. I’ve brought a little gel to see yer, a — 
a white angel. Open the door, Patty, it’s all right.” 

There was a little pause, as if the owner of the room was 
not quite sure how to act. Then shuffling steps came across 
the floor. Two bolts were withdrawn, and Nance found her- 
self face to face with a worn, very ugly woman, between 
thirty and forty. 

“ I thought you said your cousin was a little girl? ’’she said, 
looking at Billy. 

“ I said she was a gel, miss, and so she is, for she aint mar- 
ried. Patty, yer see this little angel ? She’s the child of the 
Medicine Lady, and she’s come yere looking for ’er mother.” 

“ The lady’s gone nearly two hours back,” replied Patty. 
“ Oh, my eye ! ” she continued, fixing her broad gaze on the 
child, “ wouldn’t I like to kiss that little dear ! ” 

Nance felt a shiver beginning at her forehead and going 
straight down to her toes, but she held herself upright, and 
looked bravely into the face of Cough-away-Patty. 

“ I will give you a kiss,” she said, “ if it will really do you 
any good. Once I sent three kisses in a rose to a poor man 
who was dying, and father said that he took the kisses into 
heaven with him. If you die, Patty, will you take my kiss 
into heaven with you ? ” 

“ Oh, lawks ! ” said the woman, “ do ’ear to the sweet lamb. 
My heyes ! what chance is there of me goin’ to heaven. I 
aint the right sort — I’m bad through and through. It’s the 
black pit of hell that waits for me, pretty little miss.” 


THE WHITE ANGEL. 


386 


“Father used to say,” continued Nance, “that had people 
could be made good, and then the Golden Gates are opened 
and they go inside. Couldn’t something he done to make you 
good, woman ? ” 

“ Maybe yer kiss ’ud do it,” said the woman suddenly. “No, 
don’t you come in yere. This room aint fit for the likes of 
you. Yer mother knows as I aint fit to die, and so she’s 
doin’ her best to make me live. Maybe I shall live, but I 
don’t feel like it some’ow to-night.” 

“ It won’t matter, you know, whether you live or die, if you 
go to heaven,” said Nance. 

“No, no ; but I’ll never get there. I aint the sort.” 

“ If you pray to God, he will make you good,” said Nance. 
“ Please stoop down, and I’ll kiss you on your forehead. 
Good -by. I must not stay, for I have got to find mother at 
once.” 

The woman stooped down and received the child’s kiss, with 
a queer solemnity struggling all over her face. 

“ God bless yer, missy,” she said with sudden, fierce em- 
phasis. 

Billy stayed behind for a moment to ask her one or two 
questions, then he ran after Nance. 

“ The lady’s gone ’ome for the night,” he said, “ and we 
none of us knows where she lives. Where was yer staying, 
missy, afore yer was coming down that street where I met 
yer?” 

“ I was staying with Mrs. Crichton at No. 48 Ilartrick 
Street,” said Nance. 

“ My buttons ! In the West Hend ! Why, yer is a 
swell.” 

Nance made no reply. Tears were brimming into her eyes; 
she put up her hand to wipe them away. 

“ I don’t know what to do, Churchyard Billy,” she said. 
“ It is most important that I should see mother. I cannot tell 
you the reason, for, although you are an awfully nice boy, it 
isn’t right to betray secrets, but it is most important that I 
should tell her something. Is there no possible way for us to 
find her?” 

“ None that I can think on, missy. She’ll be yere in the 
morning, and the moment she comes I’ll be on the lookout 
for ’er, and I’ll give ’er any message yer likes to leave. Yer’d 
best let me take yer ’ome, missy. Hartrick Street is a long 
way from yere.” 


386 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“Very well,” said Nance, in a tired voice. 

“Ef yer didn’t mind, I’d carry yer,” said the boy, “or 
would yer like me to fetch a cab for yer ? ” 

“ No, I had only half a crown in the world, and I gave it to 
the cabman who brought me to Charles Street. You are very 
kind, Billy, but I’ll walk as far as I can. If I do get too 
tired, I’ll stand and rest a little. Please take my hand again 
— I think you are an awfully nice boy.” 

It was between two and three in the morning when 
Churchyard Billy brought Nance back to Har trick Street. 

CHAPTER V. 

COUGH -AW AY-PATTY. 

The miraculous cure which the doctors knew nothing about, 
was being tried on Cough-away-Patty. She had taken the 
necessary oath of secrecy ; she had undergone the needful 
operation, not once, but two or three times. She was full of 
hope, of anticipation. Of course, what had cured so many of 
her neighbors would restore her to health. 

Each morning she said to herself : “ I’ll be better before 
night ; the fever will slacken, I’ll not cough so much ; the 
waste and the weariness, and the horrible thirst and the aches 
from head to foot will go. The wonderful thing cured little 
Churchyard Billy, and, of course, it will cure me.” 

Poor Cough-away-Patty ! Not one of Cecilia’s patients 
had larger faith than she. Life meant a great deal to her, 
although her existence was a very miserable and bad one. 
She did not want the cold grave and the dark, dark hereafter. 
She knew that she led an openly wicked life here, and she 
fully expected to be punished for it by and by. It seemed to 
her that she had made a sort of bargain with God. She was 
to sin all she could in this world, and she was to eat the fruit 
of her sin in the next. 

This seemed to her fair enough. She did not dream of 
grumbling at what she considered the inevitable. 

There was one point, however, on which she thought she 
had cause to complain. She was thirty- six now, and the doc- 
tors had told her she was unlikely to live another year. 

This seemed to her to be scarcely fair. If she could live to 
sixty, and then die, she felt that she could not utter a com- 
plaint. But to die at thirty-six, and to be punished through 


GO UGH- A WA YPA TTY. 


38V 


all eternity for thirty-six short years of sinful pleasure, seemed 
wrong, somehow, to her dull and untutored mind. 

The Medicine Lady came, and gave Cough-away-Patty 
hope. After all, she might live to he sixty. 

The tired-out woman lay on her straw bed during the en- 
tire night after Nance’s visit and coughed, coughed until 
morning. It was awful to listen to that cough. There was a 
lonely woman in the next room who stuffed her ears with cot- 
ton-wool on account of it. A man in the room underneath 
got up and went out because he could not stand it. There 
was a hollowness about it, a relentlessness, which reminded 
one of death at his crudest. 

Toward morning it got a little better, but by that time also 
the woman’s handkerchief was slightly tinged with blood. 

At a very early hour the Medicine Lady was seen hurrying 
up the stairs. The condition of the patient the night before 
had not satisfied Cecilia. She had scarcely slept during the 
night on account of her, and with the dawn she hurried back 
to Palmer’s Buildings. 

Success makes the most timid brave, and Cecilia, who had 
never belonged to the timid order of the race, who was always 
reckless and headstrong, who had all that in her nature which 
might have made her a fit leader in many a forlorn hope, had 
grown full of courage of late with regard to her husband’s 
discovery. 

Her courage was false, her deeds wrong, but her own belief 
in Digby’s cure was absolute. Her husband had discovered 
an absolute remedy for the fell scourge of consumption. His 
remedy had cured her, it had restored Dorothy Sharpe to per- 
fect health, and in her district she could lay her finger on 
many people, both old and young, who were once more strong 
and vigorous because of the remedy which she employed. 

Alas ! success made her bold — too bold. At first, Cecilia 
had used the attenuated lymph with extreme caution. She 
had inoculated her patients with very small doses of the fluid. 
She had been very careful to use it only on those persons 
whose illness was not in an advanced stage. 

To all appearance these persons largely benefited from her 
skill. Their coughs disappeared, they put on flesh, they grew 
well. 

But by slow degrees the natural thing followed. The 
Medicine Lady was besieged by those who were in a more ad- 
vanced stage of the complaint. With these patients her sue- 


388 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


cess was in every case only partial, and in more than one the 
complaint seemed to be rapidly augmented by the introduc- 
tion of the lymph. 

Cecilia wondered if, in such cases, she ought to use stronger 
doses. Here her ignorance of medicine became a serious 
stumbling-block ; she felt, to a certain extent, foiled, and her 
anxieties became intense. 

In the case of Patty Jones she had been very unwilling to 
use the lymph at all, but Patty had begged and implored, had 
gone on her knees, and groveled at the Medicine Lady’s feet. 

“ I want sixty years to take my fill in,” she exclaimed. “ I 
can’t do without my sixty years. If you don’t give it to me 
I’ll curse yer ; I’ll give yer sech a curse as ’ull wither you up. 
There’s somethink savage inside o’ me, and I won’t die at 
thirty-six. I won’t die ef there’s any living soul as can keep 
me alive. Ef you don’t use the cure on me, I’ll curse yer with 
sech a curse that maybe you’ll drop down dead.” 

Cecilia struggled against her better judgment for a day or 
two. On the third day she yielded. Patty took the oath of 
secrecy, and the process began. 

Mrs. Digby had a pass-key to let herself into Patty’s room. 
The woman was asleep when she entered. She went softly 
up to her side, put her hand on the brow, which was wet with 
perspiration, gently felt the fluttering pulse in the skeleton 
wrist, sighed heavily, and turned away. 

The sun had risen, and some of his rays were coming into 
the wretched room. Cecilia arranged a shawl in such a fashion 
that the sleeper’s face remained in shadow. Then, going to 
the window, she opened it an inch or two, so that the sweet, 
fresh air of the morning might fill the room. 

Putting on a pair of gloves, she skillfully made a fire and 
lit it, and put a little kettle on to boil. 

When Patty awoke, an hour later, Mrs. Digby brought her 
a cup of tea. 

The sick woman opened her intensely bright eyes and gazed 
at Cecilia as if she did not quite recognize her ; then she 
laughed harshly. 

“ You aint done it yet,” she said. “ I coughed all night 
orfle, and there’s blood on my handkercher. You lias got to 
try it agen. Has yer brought the stuff along wid yer ? You 
has got to puncture it into my arm once agen. Maybe yer 
didn’t go deep enough last time. Maybe that’s why I aint any 
better. Do yer think so — eh ? ” 


CO UGH- A WA r-PA TTY. 


389 


“ Drink your tea first, Patty. Then I’ll speak to you,” said 
Mrs Digby. 

The poor creature raised herself slightly and drained the 
cup to the dregs. 

“ That’s good,” she said. “ I was orfle dry. Now then, 
yer ’ad better fire away. Ha’ yer got the stuff ? ” 

“No, Patty, I have not brought it with me.” 

“ Curse yer ! yer’d better go back forfit, then. Yer know 
as well as I know that minits is precious, and that I aint a 
bit nor a scrap better. You don’t do it strong enough. You 
ought to put a good pinch of it into me. You go back for it 
now, as hard as yer can, or I’ll let a curse fly out at yer.” 

“ You must not curse me, Patty; it is not right. I have 
done my utmost for you.” 

“Well, well, I won’t ef you’ll be quick. You fty home at 
once for the stuff, and I’ll have my arm all bare and ready 
when you come back.” 

“Patty, you know I was unwilling to try the remedy on 
you.” 

“ You needn’t tell me that. It was the fear of the curse 
that made you do it at all.” 

“You are wrong to say that. I did it because I pitied you 
from my soul ; because, to give you a few more years of your 
wretched life, I would part with several years of my own.” 

“ My life aint wretched — not when I’m strong and hearty. 
I stole a lot of stuff once from a draper’s shop when his back 
was turned. It wer’ blue meriner, a lovely color, and I made it 
into a gown. It suited me fine, I can tell yer. I went on the 
top of a ’bus down to Kew in that gown, and I wore a bonnet 
all overyallow buttercups. Gentleman Joseph was with me — 
we was sweethearting at that time. He went to sea arter- 
ward, and was drownded in a gale off the Lizard. But, Lor’, 
I remember that day when we went to Kew as if it was yester- 
day. It was prime, I tell yer, and that gown giv’ me a sight 
of pleasure, though I did steal it.” 

“ I can’t be sorry that you had a happy day, Patty, although 
it was wrong of you to steal the stuff for the gown.” 

“ Yer needn’t tell me that. I has got to make up for it, 
arterl has had my sixty years. I has made it all square atween 
the Almighty and me. We understands one another. I has 
my fill for sixty years, and then he does his pleasure on me. 
Now, why don’t yer go and fetch the stuff ? ” 

“I am not going.” 


390 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“Not going? Wot do yer mean ?” 

“ No, I am not going ; it would be no use to inject any 
more of the medicine into your arm. It would only make you 
worse.” 

“ Wot ?” The woman uttered a piercing cry. 

Cecilia suddenly knelt by her side. She put her arms round 
her. 

“ You poor soul h” she said. “ You poor, stricken, desolate 
soul ! I would help you — I would if I could. Oh, believe 
me ! ” 

There was something in Cecilia’s tone, such a pure note of 
absolute sympathy, that the angry burst was arrested on the 
woman’s lips. Her face grew deadly pale, the perspiration 
stood out on it in great beads. She tried with her feeble hands 
to push Mrs. Digby away. Then, as suddenly, she attempted 
to draw her nearer. 

“ You ’mind me of someone ! You has a look in your eyes, 
a look — now I know. A white angel came here last night, 
and she kissed me right yere, in the center of my forehead, 
right on this spot. She had lips like a rose, and her face were 
like a bit of heaven, and she said I’d go there if I’d turn good. 
I aint going, of course, ’taint likely ; but you ’mind me of her, 
and I can’t curse you. There, let me be.” 

The woman turned her head away, dropped her hands to her 
side, and one tear after another trickled down her cheeks. Her 
breast heaved up and down, and her breath came very quickly. 

A man’s step was heard ascending the stairs. There came 
a loud, imperative knock at the door. 

Cecilia went to open it. She found herself face to face with 
two men — James Phillips and Dr. Crichton. 


CHAPTER YI. 

THE WORTH OF A KISS. 

Cecilia’s first feeling was one of alarm, mixed with annoy- 
ance. One glance, however, into Crichton’s face caused the 
annoyance to vanish. Alarm, great alarm, was now her only 
sensation. 

“ Phillips and I are glad to have found you, Mrs. Digby,” 
said Crichton, in a grave voice. “ The fact is, we must ask 
you to return with us immediately to Ilartrick Street. Nance 
is seriously ill.” 


THE WORTH OF A KISS. 


391 


Cecilia put her hand for a second to her heart; just for a 
moment, while the sword was piercing her, she felt faint and 
sick; then she stood upright, brave endurance on her face and 
in her attitude. 

The dying woman from her bed in the corner of the room 
watched the three figures in the doorway. 

“ What is it ? ” she called in her sharp voice. “ Are you 
going to take the Medicine Lady away ? She can’t go; she’s 
my doctor and I want her.” 

“ I must go,” said Cecilia, returning at once to the woman’s 
bedside. “ I will come back to you presently, but I must 
go now.” 

“ Then you leave me alone to die ? You will fail me 
altogether ? ” 

“No, I won’t; I will come back to you. Don’t keep me 
now. If Billy is anywhere around he will come in and help 
to take care of you.” 

“ Billy is on the landing,” said Mr. Crichton, “ if you mean 
a lad who calls himself Churchyard Billy; it was he who 
brought us here. He is waiting outside.” 

“ Tell him to come in,” said Cecilia. 

The boy entered the room. She gave him a few hurried 
directions, tied on her cloak, fastened her bonnet strings 
with trembling fingers, and walked downstairs with the two 
men. 

A cab was waiting at the door. The three got into it, 
and Crichton told the driver to take them to 48 Hartrick 
Street. 

“At last,” said Cecilia, “I am ready to hear what is wrong. 
Nance was quite well when I saw her a few days ago. What 
is the nature of her illness ? ” 

“ It is a queer story,” said Crichton. “ She may be better 
when we return, but she cried so piteously and so constantly 
for you that Phillips and I felt that we could not leave a 
stone unturned to find you. Luckily, the boy knew where you 
were very likely to be heard of. But for him we should 
probably not have had a chance of discovering your where- 
about.” 

Cecilia beat one of her hands restlessly on her knee. 

“You puzzle me very much,” she said. “IIow did you 
come across the boy who is called Churchyard Billy ? ” 

“ That is it,” said Crichton. “That is the story. Nance 
went with us to dine at the Lancasters’ last night She was 


392 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


all right during dinner time, but when Dorothy and I were 
preparing to leave, she could not be found anywhere. We 
went home in a state of terrible anxiety. Nance had not re- 
turned to Hartrick Street. Between two and three in the 
morning, this boy, Churchyard Billy, brought her home. The 
moment she got inside the house she fainted. When she 
recovered consciousness she became very feverish. All night 
long her constant cry has been for you.” 

“ Did she say anything of what happened to her from the 
time you missed her at the Lancasters’ ? ” 

“ She only said that she wanted to find you — that there was 
something that she wished very much to tell you. She would 
say nothing more.” 

“ I came in to see Nance this morning,” said Phillips. 
“Her temperature was very high. She has evidently taken a 
severe chill, and has, besides, sustained some sort of shock. 
I don’t like her condition at all. It was absolutely necessary 
to find you without a moment’s delay. Perhaps when you 
come to Hartrick Street you will see that your primary duty 
is to your child.” 

“ That always has been my primary duty,” replied Cecilia 
in a voice of ice. She gave Phillips a defiant look. His 
eyes flashed back another at her. 

No further words were uttered until the three arrived at 
their destination. 

Dorothy was waiting in the hall. She took Cecilia’s hand, 
put her arm around her neck, gave her a quick, sympathetic 
kiss, and then took her upstairs to the old, pretty nursery, 
which had always been reserved for little Nance. It looked 
as sweet and bright as ever. The same furniture still adorned 
it. The same pictures hung on the walls. The same white 
cot, beautifully draped, stood in one corner. When Cecilia 
entered the room, she felt as if the sorrows of the two last 
years were nothing but an ugly nightmare. A quick thought 
flashed through her brain. “ Have I been dreaming all this 
horrible time ? Is Laurence still alive ? ” 

The thought and the hope vanished as soon as they found 
utterance. Nance was lying on the white bed, fast asleep, 
her cheeks burnt with fever, her little hands were very hot. 
She moaned now and then in her sleep. She had all the 
appearance of a child who was going to be very ill. 

Cecilia took off her gray cloak and bonnet. She turned to 
Dorothy and began to speak in a quiet voice. 


THE WORTH OF A KISS. 


393 


“ I will sit by her until she awakes,” she said. “ Don’t let 
anyone come into the room. It will seem quite natural to her 
to see me sitting by her bedside when she opens her eyes.” 

“ Very well,” replied Dorothy. “ Cecilia, dear, it was ab- 
solutely necessary, or I would not have sent for you.” 

“You did right to send for me, Dorothy. Don’t 
let us talk any more now. I will come to you if I want 
anything.” 

Mrs. Crichton went out of the room, closing the door softly 
behind her. Cecilia drew an armchair forward, and sat down 
by the child’s bedside. The little sleeper murmured some 
names in her uneasy slumbers. 

“ Mother,” she said several times, “ I must find mother. I 
am not frightened, boy ; I have got to find my mother. I 
don’t much like kissing that poor woman, but if — if it does 
her any good — father would like me to be brave, he said so. 
Once I kissed a rose.” 

The child flung herself round restlessly to the other side of 
her bed. The next moment she had opened her eyes, and 
fixed them, with surprise, recognition, and delight, on her 
mother. 

“Mother, you have come at last ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ Yes, my darling,” replied Cecilia; “I came as soon as 
ever I heard you wanted me. Now I am going to wrap you 
in a shawl, and you shall sit in my arms and put your 
head here on my shoulder.” 

Nance smiled faintly. “ My head feels quite confused,” 
she said, “and I am awfully hot, and my legs ache ; but I 
don’t mind anything now you have come.” 

“No, my dearest, now I have come you have nothing to 
fear. Mother won’t leave you again. I did wrong to send 
you from me.” 

Cecilia took the child into her arms. Nance lay still for 
a few moments, enjoying the comfort of being close to her 
mother again. 

“ I feel better,” she said. “ I’ll be all right now that you 
are here. Mother, may I tell you about last night ? ” 

“ Yes, my darling, I want to hear about it ; but you must 
tell me quietly, you must not excite yourself.” 

“I will try to be quiet, but it was so awful ! They were 
both talking — Dr. Phillips and Dr. Dickinson.” 

“Dickinson — Dr. Dickinson?” asked Cecilia, with a start. 

“ Yes. Why do you look so funny, mother ? I sat near 


394 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Dr. Dickinson at dinner. He was a nice man. I hoped he 
was a merchant, for I wanted to use him for one of my stories ; 
hut, of course, he turned out to be a doctor. It seems to me 
that almost all men are doctors. But he was very nice — at 
least, I thought so until I found him out.” 

“ You found him out, my darling ? Now, Nance, you are 
getting too excited.” 

“ I must tell you, mother. I was on the sofa in the back 
drawing room in Harford Square, and I had got a lot of 
Cousin Millie’s magazines round me. I was looking at the 
pictures, and Dr. Phillips and Dr. Dickinson came and talked ; 
they were close to me, and I heard them. They talked all 
about you, mother. Dr. Phillips told Dr. Dickinson a lot of 
wicked things about you. He said you were curing people 
with some medicine of father’s, and he said you had no right 
to use it. He got very angry, and he said it was wicked, and 
Dr. Dickinson said it was wicked, too. He said that it must 
be stopped, and he said that you could be ‘ indited’ — that’s 
the word, mother, ‘ indited ’; I haven’t a notion what it means 
— ‘ indited for slaughtering people.’ Wasn’t it awful to say 
such things, when you save such a lot of lives ? Oh, mother, 
mother, it broke my heart ! It broke my heart, mother ! ” 

Poor little Nance began to cry feebly. Cecilia soothed 
and petted her as only a most loving mother can soothe an 
overexcited child. She crushed every feeling of alarm with 
regard to herself in her earnest endeavor to soothe the little 
girl. 

She told Nance that she had been brave and good to go 
and look for her. She had done just what a brave and noble 
child should have done : and that no harm had befallen her, 
because God had taken care of her all the time. She also 
told Nance that her fears with regard to herself were un- 
founded, that no one could do her the least harm, and that, 
for the present, she intended to stay with her little daughter 
day and night. 

Nance felt quite happy after this talk. She asked her 
mother to put her back to bed, and began to chatter in her 
old, bright, fanciful way. 

Cecilia listened to the child’s pretty ideas for some time, 
then she went out and spoke to Dorothy. 

“ I am not at all satisfied about Nance,” she said. “She 
has had a very serious shock. The fact is, she heard Dr. 
Phillips and Dr. Dickinson talking about me. The child is 


THE WO It Til OF A KISS. 


395 


over sensitive in every way, and they spoke in a manner that 
would naturally much alarm her. You know, Dorothy, yes, 
you know, how delicate she is. I should like Dr. Arbuthnot 
to come and see her — this evening, if possible.” 

“We will send for him,” said Dorothy. “Is he the man 
you would best like to see her, Cecilia ? ” 

“It is very probable that I should have preferred Dr. 
Dickinson, whom my husband thought so highly of, but in 
the child’s present condition he might agitate her. Dr. Ar- 
buthnot can give as good an opinion as anyone. As to the 

treatment ” Cecilia paused, and a bright gleam came into 

her eyes. 

“ O Cecilia ! ” said Dorothy. “ It isn’t consumption that 
you dread ? ” 

“ Yes, Dorothy, the child inherits a tendency to consump- 
tion. Her father always feared it for her. She may quite 
recover from her present attack, or serious consequences may 
arise. I have seen so much illness lately, dear Dorothy, and 
I have studied this form of disease so extensively, that I can- 
not be mistaken, Nance is seriously unwell.” 

“ You would not try your cure on her ; you would not dare 
to ! ” said Dorothy in a subdued whisper. 

“ I cannot say. Don’t ask me. Oh, that God would guide 
me ! ” 

“ Does He guide you, Cecilia ? Do you feel His guidance 
when you go down to those poor people and try your cure on 
them ? ” 

“ Don’t ask me, Dorothy,” said Cecilia again. Her face 
was the color of death. She went back to the sick child’s 
room. 

About seven o’clock that evening a little twisted note was 
brought up to Mrs. Digby by a servant. It was a dirty note, 
smeared with ink, written on the worst paper, the sentences 
scarcely legible. 

Cecilia opened the note and read the brief contents. 

“ Onered Lady : This is to say that my cousin, poor Patty 
Jones, died at three o’clock this arternoon. 

“ Your faithful Billy.” 

“ Is the messenger downstairs ? ” asked Mrs. Digby. 

“No, ma’am,” replied the servant. “The boy handed in 
the note and ran away.” 


396 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Cecilia put it into her pocket ; Nance’s bright eyes were 
fixed on her mother’s face. 

“ Is anything the matter, mother darling? ” she asked. 

“ No, my little love, there is nothing exactly the matter ; 
there is one poor soul less in this world, and one poor suffer- 
ing body at peace.” 

“ Mother,” said Nance, “ I kissed a poor woman last night. 
She asked me to. She didn’t look nice, and I didn’t want to 
kiss her. It was very wicked of me not to wish to, wasn’t it, 
mother ? Then I remembered something, and I — I kissed her 
on the forehead. I felt quite glad afterward. Do you know 
anything of the woman, mother ? She spoke of you, so of 
course you must know her. She had a very odd name. 
Cough-away-Patty they called her. Oh, mother, she lived in 
such a dreadful room ! ” 

“ She doesn’t live there any longer ; Nance, my darling, the 
woman you kissed has died. This little note was to tell me 
of her death.” 

“ I am glad I gave her that kiss,” said Nance. She did not 
add any more ; she lay with her sweet little fair face turned 
toward the sunset. 

Nance’s beautiful old nursery faced west ; there happened 
to be a very exquisite sunset that evening. Some of its re- 
flections filled the room now, and the child’s eyes grew bright 
and full of peace as she looked up toward the sky. 

“ I am awfully glad I kissed the poor woman,” she said 
once or twice. 

Dr. Arbuthnot came between seven and eight. He made a 
very careful examination of the child. Then he went down- 
stairs to speak to her mother. 

“ You must be very careful of her,” he said. “ The dis- 
ease which exists in her frame has not yet taken an active 
form, but it is certain to do so sooner or later.” 

“ You are quite convinced that she is consumptive, Dr. 
Arbuthnot?” 

“ Quite convinced, my dear madam ; need you ask ? The 
child has all the peculiarities which accompany the disease. 
That and her family history make the fact all too patent. Her 
nervous system, too, is in a very critical condition. She is 
overexcited, she is morbid, she is a great deal too sensitive. 
What I fear most for her is mischief to the brain. Keep her 
very quiet. Be as stupid as you can in her presence. I doubt 
if you are the best person to be with her,” 


THE VOICES IN THE CHILD'S ROOM. 


397 


“ I shall never leave her alone again, Dr. Arbuthnot. The 
person who rests and satisfies her little heart must be the 
right one to stay with her day and night.” 

“ Yes, that is so. Well, keep her quiet ; she must not get 
up for a day or two. I will write a prescription for a simple 
tonic for her, and come and see her again at the end of the 
week.” 

The doctor hurried away, and Cecilia went back to Nance’s 
nursery. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE VOICES IN THE CHILD’S ROOM. 

Nance slept peacefully, but her mother did not go to bed. 
A whirl of many thoughts swept through her brain. She 
sat in a low chair close to the sleeping child. Now and 
then she pressed her hand to her own forehead, now and then 
she moved restlessly about the room, but her eyes never 
closed, nor did she for a moment relax the intensity of her 
watch. 

About midnight Nance stirred, opened her eyes for a 
moment, spoke her mother’s name in a voice of sleepy satis- 
faction,, then turned on her pillow, and went off once more 
into the land of dreams. When the child did this Cecilia 
stretched out her hand and laid it softly, very softly on the 
white brow. The child’s forehead was slightly damp. Mrs. 
Digby bent lower, and listened to the hurried breathing. It 
was short — not exactly labored, but too quick for perfect 
health. That, the moisture on the brow, and a peculiar expres- 
sion on the little face confirmed all too plainly Dr. Arbuthnot’s 
words. 

“ I will do it,” said Mrs. Digby. “ The fell disease with 
which my only child has been threatened from her birth has 
at last really commenced. It is in a very early stage — still it 
has undoubtedly commenced. I must use the lymph without 
further delay. I have very little fear. Fear ! 1 have no fear. 
In a case like Nance’s the cure is absolutely certain. When 
have I ever failed to cure when I used my husband’s lymph in 
the early stage of consumption ? My little darling shall be 
saved. I can live without everything else, without Laurence 
— yes, it is an empty world, but I can live without Laurence ; 
I can also live without friends — I can live through evil 
repute, through dark reports, but I cannot live without Nance. 


398 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


I must save her ! I will save her ! I can fancy Dr. Arbuth- 
not’s astonishment when he sees the change in her ; I can see 
the wondering looks that will be cast at me. I know that Dr. 
Phillips will consider his suspicions confirmed, but I don’t 
hesitate. I will introduce the lymph as soon as possible into 
the child’s system. I will save her, cost it what it may ! ” 

Having made up her mind, Mrs. Digby grew, as she always 
did in such cases of emergency, intensely calm and quiet. 
She rose very gently from her chair by the sleeping child, and 
going across the room, put on her bonnet and cloak. She 
then noiselessly unfastened the door, and went out. She 
hesitated for a minute whether to leave the sick child alone 
or to summon Price, Mrs. Crichton’s maid, to sit with her 
until her return ; but, after a brief deliberation with herself, 
she decided that it would be safest to leave little Nance alone 
for the couple of hours during which she must be away. 

It was between twelve and one when Cecilia glided down 
the stairs of her husband’s old house. She knew every trick 
of the stairs ; she knew that on those stone stairs her foot- 
steps would not make the slightest sound. She reached the 
hall door, and, dexterously removing* the chains, opened it. 
She carried a bunch of keys in her pocket, and on this bunch 
was the old latchkey which used to open the door in the past 
days. She remembered tiiis now with satisfaction, and, put- 
ting the door on the latch, closed it softly behind her, and 
went down the steps into the street. 

She walked a little distance, looking for a hansom which 
might be out late. People were returning from different fes- 
tivities, but the street was already quieting down into that 
stillness which pervades such localities for a few hours before 
dawn. Cecilia never noticed that a man, who had been stand- 
ing in one of the deep porticoes, stepped out into the street 
when she passed by, and followed her at a respectful distance. 
Whenever she stopped — and she stopped once or twice, look- 
ing up and down some street that she was crossing — the man 
retired into the shadow, and so hid himself from her view. 

Cecilia walked for a long distance, looking now and then 
for a hansom. At last she gave up expecting to find one, and 
hurrying her own footsteps went down several streets, the 
man following her at a distance of about twenty yards. Had 
she not been so preoccupied, she must have noticed the foot- 
fall which kept such time with her own that it might almost 
have been considered an echo ; but Cecilia’s thoughts were 


THE VOICES IN THE CHILD'S ROOM. 


•399 


all within, and she observed nothing external. She reached 
a poor part of the town, and, walking down many by-streets, 
stopped at last at a humble door. 

She knocked, and a woman with a pale, careworn face 
obeyed her summons at once. 

“ There have been several people asking me when you’d 
come in, lady,” she said. 

“ Thank you, Mrs. Martin,” said Cecilia. “ Please tell any- 
one that happens to call that I am engaged on pressing busi- 
ness from home for the next few days. Please do not fasten 
the hall door, I am only going upstairs for a moment or two. 
I have to leave again immediately.” 

“The child upstairs is much better, ma’am. You will be 
glad to hear that.” 

“I am very glad. In a case like your daughter’s there is 
little to be apprehended in using my remedy.” 

“ Her cough seems almost gone, ma’am. It’s quite wonder- 
ful. I was on my knees for half an hour to-night thanking 
the good Lord for his mercies.” 

A queer kind of twitch came over Cecilia’s face. She 
stopped for a moment as if she meant to ask the woman to do 
something for her, then, changing her mind, she ran upstairs. 

In about a quarter of an hour she left the house and re- 
turned, as fast as her feet would carry her, to Hartrick Street. 
There was no echo of her footsteps this time. The man who 
had followed her had traced her to her destination, and was 
now satisfied to return to his own home. 

Cecilia reached No. 48, let herself in with her latchkey, 
and returned to Nance’s room, to find the child sleeping as 
calmly as she had left her. 

No one had missed Cecilia out of the house. No one would 
guess that she had left it during the midnight hours. She 
had put all the chains and bars back upon the hall door, and 
her absence could not even be suspected. 

The short summer night had nearly given place to dawn 
when Cecilia returned to the old nursery. Nance was sound 
as l ee p — 8 he looked as if she had not stirred since her mother 
left her two or three hours ago. The faint hectic flush which 
had been so observable the night before had given place to 
pallor. Her beautiful hair lay in masses over the pillow, the 
dark lashes rested heavily on the white cheeks. Her slumber 
was so gentle, her breathing so faint, that she scarcely seemed 
to breathe. The look on her face was full of peace — a dead 


400 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


child could not have presented a more unearthly appear- 
ance. 

Cecilia felt her heart give a great bang in her breast, then 
it bounded forward with fierce rapidity. A sickening fear 
possessed her. She bent over the little sleeper in anguish. 
For a brief moment she really thought the child was 
dead. 

The faint breathing, however, soon reassured her. She sat 
down in the armchair by the bed, and wiped the perspiration 
from her own forehead. 

She had received an awful shock. That one moment’s pain 
seemed suddenly to have added years to her life. She had 
made a mistake, however. Thank God, she had made a mis- 
take ! The little life was still there. It burned feebly, 
doubtless very feebly, but she had that with her which would 
soon fan it into flame. 

Each moment the daylight grew brighter in the room. 
Cecilia only waited for a little more light to inject the first 
dose of the lymph. She attempted to do it while the child 
slept. The pain was so trivial that it might not even wake 
her. For every reason she thought it best that Nance should 
not know anything about the remedy until health was re- 
stored to her. 

The sun arose, and some of its brightness was reflected 
through the closed blinds. The room faced west, but the 
sunshine lay everywhere on this glorious summer morning. 

Cecilia’s heart kept on giving great irregular thumps. 
Nance slept with the serenity of a baby. On other occasions 
Mrs. Digby had always found courage and calmness come 
with indomitable resolve. The resolve was there, stronger 
than it had ever been, but queer — queer, the courage was 
wanting. Cecilia wondered at herself. It seemed to her that 
all her past life had been but a training for this supreme 
moment — the moment when a mother might snatch her child 
from the jaws of cruel death. Not a doctor in London would 
do the deed, she knew. No passionate entreaties on her part, 
no eloquence, however intense, would prevail on them to use 
her husband’s remedy to save his child’s life. The worst of 
them would sneer, the best of them would put the remedy 
away with gentle words of pity, and tell the distracted mother 
that twenty years hence this immature discovery might be 
perfected and some other child’s life saved. 

This child would die. She would die because her mother 


THE VOICES IN THE CHILD'S BOOM. 


401 


was a coward ; because, in the supreme moment, all her 
courage had failed her. 

“ This is folly,” said Mrs. Digby to herself. “ Each instant 
is of value. There is plenty of light now. I must do the 
deed at once, or the child will awake.” 

She went over to one of the windows and made certain 
preparations. Her hand shook horribly. She felt that she 
could curse herself for her cowardice and want of nerve. 
What was the matter ? Where was her usual coolness ? In 
every other case she had felt, at a moment like this, that she 
was a woman of iron. At such a time her hand was steady, 
her touch firm. Now, the tremor which shook her life to its 
very foundations rendered her almost powerless. 

She went into a small dressing room which adjoined the 
nursery, and bathed her face and hands in cold water. She 
filled a glass brimful of the liquid and drank it off. She was 
better now. She went quickly back to the nursery, and 
approached the child’s bed. 

She determined to think of Nance as of some other woman’s 
child. She fought hard to get back the feeling of ecstasy 
which at moments like this had more than once supported 
her. She had felt raised above the common earth. She had 
the sensations in her breast that might animate an angel sent 
down from heaven to save a suffering world. 

Now, alas, alas ! all was different. She was surrounded by 
despondency, gloom, by an ever increasing sensation of terror, 
of fear — a sort of* awful foretaste of failure. 

“ What is the matter with me?” she said to herself. “ I 
will go over and kneel by the window, and look up at the sky, 
and pray to God. God must bless this deed. It must be 
right for a mother to save her child. The remedy is abso- 
lutely certain to effect a cure. It never failed yet in a case 
like the present.” 

Cecilia went to the window and knelt there, but no 
thought from her tempest-tossed heart would pierce the blue 
vault. On the contrary, old scenes and old images thronged 
before her puzzled brain. She was back again in the little farm- 
house at Hampton Wick. The sun was rising on another 
summer’s morning, and a dying man was watching its rays as 
they crept across the room. Some words, as distinct as when 
they were spoken, sounded again in Mrs. Digby’s ears : 

“ I charge you , Cecilia , I charge you ” 

She sprang to her feet as if a serpent had stung her. Her 


402 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


husband had given her a sacred charge, and she had made a 
sacred promise. 

The room seemed suddenly to become full of voices, all 
taunting her with the fact that she had broken her promise and 
been false to her charge. 

The voices confused and nearly maddened her. They 
sounded loudest near the window. She must get away from 
them. She went back again to the child’s bedside ; she knelt 
down by the sleeping child. Of course her husband was angry 
and God was displeased ; it was the worst madness of all to 
hope for a blessing on her work — still, whether with a blessing 
or without, she must save the child. If God would not help 
her, perhaps the devil would. Some power which she could 
never resist had impelled her to go on in the past ; perhaps it 
would still come to her aid. 

Ah, now she felt better ! Much, much calmer — quite like 
her old self. 

She put her hand under the bedclothes, and softly felt for 
the child’s arm. She drew it gently outside the coverlet, and 
pulled up the nightdress sleeve. The little arm lay there, white 
as marble, the blue veins showing through the skin. It lay 
there, warm and soft — a living thing — a beautiful part of a 
beautiful child. Often had its pressure been felt round 
Cecilia’s neck ; many, many times she had rested her tired 
head against it. So frail it looked, and yet so strong it was — 
strong with the protection of a child’s holy love. 

Cecilia bent down and kissed the bare, smooth arm. 

She felt afraid that the little sleeper would awake, but she 
did not. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

JUDGED. 

Cecilia, having now tried her husband’s discovery on several 
patients, was prepared for certain symptoms. In cases where 
the remedy was successful, they came with marked regularity. 
The first injection of the lymph was followed in a couple of 
hours by shivering fits and a marked rise of temperature. 
This feverish condition lasted for the greater part of the day, 
during which the patient felt all his symptoms worse than be- 
fore the remedy was applied. After twenty-four hours the fever 
abated, and an improved condition began to set in. After the 
lapse of a few days Mrs. Digby again injected the fluid. This 


JUDGED. 


403 


time the feverish symptoms were slighter and of shorter dura- 
tion. The improvement which followed was also proportion- 
ately greater. 

This was the invariable course when the remedy was likely 
to prove a success, and Cecilia confidently expected such an 
event in the case of her child. 

She was startled, therefore, and rendered uneasy by the fact 
that Nance did not exhibit any shivering or rise of tempera- 
ture. All during the day which followed the injection of the 
lymph she remained quiet and languid, talking very little and 
sleeping a good deal. She was not in the least feverish, and 
the expression of her sweet face was happy. 

Crichton came in to see the little girl in the evening, and 
was pleased with her appearance, lie spoke a few words to 
her mother on the landing outside the room. 

“ lam only a surgeon,” he said, “ but I know enough of 
medicine to be thoroughly satisfied with Nance. Her whole 
nervous system received a shock the night she went to look 
for you. She was very much excited during yesterday, and 
the languor of to-day is nothing but the reaction.” 

Cecilia did not say a word. 

“ I am thoroughly satisfied, I repeat,” said Crichton. Then 
he gave Mrs. Digby a quick look. “ I am sorry that you do 
not share my sentiments,” he said, in a sympathetic tone. 

“I do not,” she replied. “ I cannot explain my fears, but 
they are strong and heavy. I am going back to the child now.” 

Crichton entered the drawing-room, where his wife was sit- 
ting. 

“ Mrs. Digby is very nervous about Nance,” he said, “ and 
the child is really doing as well as possible. She has not the 
slightest rise of temperature, in fact she looks well, only weak. 
She will be all right in a day or two, I have not the least 
doubt.” 

“ I think,” said Dorothy, “ that Cecilia expected ” 

“ What, my dear ? ” 

“ Nothing, nothing ! ” 

Mrs. Crichton turned her head away, her face was crimson. 
Her slight figure shook with agitation. 

“ Dorothy, you are concealing something from me,” said 
Crichton. “ What is it ? ” 

“ Nothing, Frank.” 

“ You are absolutely stooping to tell me an untruth. 
Your manner declares that there is something. How white 


404 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


you have turned now, and you are trembling ! Look at me, 
Dorothy. Oh, good God ! ” continued Crichton, suddenly 
turning white to the lips himself. “You don’t mean to say 
that that woman — Dorothy, rumors have reached me — 
Phillips has been talking. Very queer rumors are afloat 
about Mrs. Digby. Is it possible ? But it can’t be. Is it 
possible that she has used her quack nostrums on her child ? ” 

Dorothy suddenly sank down in the nearest chair ; her 
trembling became excessive. 

“ What if she has ? ” she murmured. 

“ What if she has ! What a truly dangerous woman ! 
Heaven alone knows the mischief she may have done. Good 
heavens, Dorothy, are you mad ? But my fears must be 
groundless. No woman in her senses would be so wicked. 
If I thought so I would turn her from the house this 
minute.” 

“ You are cruel ! ” said Dorothy, springing suddenly to her 
feet. “ No woman in the world is less wicked than Cecilia 
Digby. You, of all men, are the last who should speak 

against her. But for her — but for her O Frank, 

Frank, I took a vow, but I’ll break it to clear her in your 
eyes. Cecilia possesses a cure for consumption. She used it 
in my case. She saved the life the doctors could do nothing 
for ! ” 

Crichton was about to speak when there came an interrup- 
tion. Dorothy was clinging to him, his arms were round her, 
when Mrs. Digby walked swiftly into the drawing room. 
The moment she saw her friend, Dorothy sprang forward. 

“ I have broken my vow, Cecilia,” she said. “ I have told 

my husband of the cure ” Then she fell back, all further 

words arrested. 

There was a look on Mrs. Digby’s face which froze the 
hearts of the husband and wife ; that look took something out 
of their lives which could never be replaced. 

It was to them both as if they had suddenly got a glimpse 
into hell itself. 

Cecilia went straight up to Crichton, and put her hand on 
his arm. 

“ It does not matter now in the least what you have heard,” 
she said. “ The medicine that cured Dorothy will kill Nance. 
It is my just — my most just punishment ! ” 

“ Cecilia, what is wrong ? ” asked Dorothy. 

“Nance has had a very strange and alarming seizure. At 


JUDGED. 


405 


the present moment she is unconscious. Will you” — Mrs. 
Digby turned to Crichton — “ will you fetch Dr. Arbuthnot and 
Dr. Dickinson here as soon as possible ? ” 

“ Do you want them both ? ” asked Crichton. 

“ Yes, I want them both. Ask them to come and consult 
over Laurence Digby’s child, and hear his wife’s confes- 
sion.” 

“ I will go,” said Crichton. “ I will go directly. Don’t 
keep me, Dorothy.” She rushed down the drawing room 
after him. 

“ Say a kind word to her before you go,” she said, clutch- 
ing her husband’s arm. “ Look at her ! Say one kind 
word ! ” 

“ I cannot,” he replied. 

He shook his wife away almost roughly, and left the 
room. 

“ Come upstairs, Dorothy,” said Cecilia. Her tone had not 
a trace of emotion in it. 

Dorothy followed her to the nursery where the sick child 
lay. 

There was a strange and marked change in her — a change 
so manifest and so great that Dorothy could not help giving 
vent to a cry of anguish. 

Cecilia sat down by the bedside. 

“ Why don’t you speak, Cecil ? ” said Mrs. Crichton. 

“ Speak? ’’she said, raising her eyes once and flashing a 
glance at Dorothy which caused her to shiver. “ Look there ! 
What words have I to say ? ” 

The child lay partly curled up ; her head was thrown back ; 
her complexion was deadly pale, with the exception of one 
cheek, which was deeply flushed. 

Dorothy crouched down at the foot of the bed. Cecilia sat 
motionless in the chair which she had occupied during the 
greater part of the day. A wooden cuckoo clock, bought 
long ago for Nance by her father, ticked over the mantelpiece. 
The hour struck, and the cuckoo came out and proclaimed by 
his clear note that spring and summer are eternal. 

The sunshine stole in bars across the room. Some dogs 
barked in the street below. Some carriages rolled by. 

One rattled up presently and stopped at the door. 

There was the sound of commotion in the hall, and men’s 
steps coming up the stairs. The nursery door was opened, 
and Crichton, accompanied by the tw.o physicians, came in. 


406 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Dr. Arbuthnot uttered one brief, shocked exclamation 
when he looked at the child. Dr. Dickinson said under his 
breath : 

“ I should not know my little friend of two days ago.” 

Cecilia was asked several questions; the necessary exami- 
nation was made. The strange and sudden seizure which 
had rendered Nance unconscious was fully described. 

Dr. Dickinson pressed his finger rather heavily on the 
child’s wrist. A dull red mark was instantly produced, which 
did not quickly fade. 

The two physicians looked at one another, and murmured 
something about the “ tache cerebrale.” 

Soon afterward they left the room together. 

“ I will take you down to my consulting room,” said Crich- 
ton. 

Before they could reply, Mrs. Digby came out of the 
nursery and joined them. 

“ I wish to be with you when you are having your consul- 
tation,” she said. “ I have something of importance to say 
which will throw light upon the case.” 

“Pardon me, this is quite unusual,” began Dr. Arbuth- 
not. 

But Dr. Dickinson looked into her face and said 
quietly : 

“ Let her come.” 

The three men and the woman went downstairs. Cecilia 
had not been in her husband’s consulting room since that 
dreadful night when she had emptied his secretary of its con- 
tents. She remembered this fact now, but was too absorbed 
by other things to be affected by it. The moment the doc- 
tors closed the door, she said; 

“ I wish to be told the absolute truth. What is the matter 
with the child ? ” 

“ Her illness is clearly defined,” began Dr. Arbuthnot. 

“ Name it.” 

The one physician looked at the other. They stepped aside, 
and whispered a word or two. Then Dr. Dickinson came up 
to Mrs. Digby and spoke to her. 

“ Your little girl is suffering from an acute affection of the 
brain. The name of the disease which has stricken her is 
known in medical phraseology as tubercular meningitis.” 

“ Tubercular ! ” repeated Mrs. Digby. She pressed both 
her hands against her heart. “ Such a disease would affect 


JUDGED. 


407 


consumptive patients,” she murmured. “ It is a form of con- 
sumption, is it not ? consumption of the brain ? ” 

Dr. Arbuthnot interrupted. 

“ Yes,” he said. “ I saw the child last night, and gave a 
poor opinion of her. I told you, Mrs. Digby, that she was 
consumptive. Each symptom pointed to this conclusion. I 
also feared mischief to the brain, but this sudden and com- 
plete collapse I was not prepared for.” 

Mrs. Digby began to tremble very much. 

“Is — is such a rapid change for the worse unusual ? ” she 
asked. 

“It is practically unknown; I have never had a similar ex- 
perience.” 

“ I think I can explain it.” 

“You? My dear madam, scarcely likely ! The case is of 
deep interest. I must take several notes. It points to ” 

Dr. Arbuthnot was interrupted. Dr. Dickinson came up 
suddenly and took his arm. 

“ Mrs. Digby wishes to say something,” he said. “Listen 
to her.” 

“Won’t you sit down ?” said Crichton, springing forward 
and offering her a chair. Her deathly pallor frightened him. 

“ I won’t sit,” she said. “ I am arraigned before a tribu- 
nal. You three men are my judges. You can do as you 
think fit with me.” 

Dr. Arbuthnot moved impatiently. lie thought Mrs. Digby 
had taken leave of her senses, but there was something in 
her eyes which arrested Dr. Dickinson’s marked attention. 
He remembered his conversation with Phillips two nights ago. 

“I wish to say,” continued Cecilia, “that my husband on 
his deathbed entrusted a very valuable secret to my keeping. 
He had made a discovery with regard to consumption, lie 
called it incomplete. He never used it except once, and then 
it was on himself. On his deathbed he told me to burn 
all the papers relating to this discovery, or, if I preferred it, to 
give them in a sealed packet to you , Dr. Dickinson. 

“ I promised faithfully. 

“ I broke my promise. I read the papers. I thought the 
discovery complete. I prepared a certain lymph by a proc- 
ess clearly indicated. My lungs were slightly affected after 
a bad attack of pneumonia. I used the remedy on myself 
Avith perfect success. Mr. Crichton, the girl who is noAV your 
wife was given a year at the most to live. You, Dr. Arbuth- 


408 


THE MEDICINE LADT. 


not, declared her case hopeless. I tried the remedy on her 
and she recovered. Lady Sharpe brought her to see you, and, 
after careful examination, you declared her lungs restored to 
perfect health. Do you remember ?” 

“I recall the fact,” said Dr. Arbuthnot. “ Merciful 
heavens ! am I in a dream ? ” 

He took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. 
So keen was his excitement that his eyes looked as if they 
were starting from his head. 

“Afterward,” continued Cecilia, “I tried the remedy on 
a great many people. I had some failures, but my success was 
greater than my failure. 

“This morning I — I said to myself, ‘The crucial hour has 
arrived when a mother may be privileged to save her child.’ 
I — I experimented on the child.” 

“You did?” said Dr. Arbuthnot, his extreme agitation 
finding vent in a burst of fury. He rushed up to the pale wom- 
an and clutched her by the arm. “ You experimented on that 
frail child — that dying child ? How did you experiment ? ” 

“ I introduced some lymph into her arm.” 

“My God! Was there ever such madness? Lymph! 
Another word for poison ! Dickinson, I can’t go on with 
this. Question the woman. Ask her to describe the nature 
of the — of the lymph.” 

Dr. Arbuthnot walked to the other end of the consulting 
room and looked out of one of the windows. His anger and 
agitation were almost overmastering him. 

Dr. Dickinson said a few words to Cecilia. She told him, 
as well as she could, something of the nature of the poison 
she had employed. 

“ You have been most culpable,” he began. 

“ Culpable /” retorted Dr. Arbuthnot, returning once more to 
the charge. Culpable is no word. I shall refuse to give a 
certificate of death.” 

“ You said there was a tendency,” began Cecilia. 

“ A tendency to brain disease ? There was. I deny nothing. 
You have made that tendency a certainty. I cannot speak to 
you; your conduct is ” 

“Hush,” said Dr. Dickinson, “this is no time for man to 
interfere. What are words ? Look at the woman’s face. 
God has judged her.” 

Cecilia walked toward the door of the consulting room. 
Crichton opened it and she passed out, 


ATONEMENT. 


409 


CHAPTER IX. 

ATONEMENT. 

Mrs. Digby returned to the nursery. The blow that had 
been dealt to her left her outwardly composed. She did not 
observe the frightened, shocked, and pitying glances given 
to her by each member of the household who happened to 
look in her face. 

There was a look about that stricken face which caused 
people to say for themselves what the doctors had already 
said, “ God has judged her.” 

The rumor of what Cecilia had done spread rapidly through 
the household. It penetrated also to No. 47, and electrified 
Helen Phillips with horror. 

Phillips sprang up when he heard the news, and joined 
Crichton in the next house. 

“ I have known this for some time,” he said. “ I have 
always waited for you to speak of it. Your silence has filled 
me with astonishment.” 

“ Before God,” said Crichton, whose face was white as 
ashes, “ the whole thing has only burst upon me this evening. 
I can’t speak to you about what I feel. I am torn both ways. 
If half of what Mrs. Digby says is true she has killed her 
child, but she has saved my wife’s life.” 

“ Your want of curiosity with regard to your wife’s 
recovery is one of the puzzles I can never fathom,” retorted 
Phillips. 

“ I am not a physician,” replied Crichton, “ and when a 
man like Arbuthnot pronounced her restored to health, I did 
not think it necessary to fathom the matter any further. 
I must own, however, that Dorothy was always singularly 
reserved on the subject of her restoration. Yes, singularly 
reserved. The events of this night make many things plain.” 

The two men were standing on the hearthrug in the con- 
sulting room. Phillips remained silent a moment; then he 
said in a low tone: 

“ The events of to-night surprise me very little. I felt 
quite certain that Mrs. Digby would come to catastrophe. 
Give her rope enough and she was sure to hang herself in the 
end.” 

“ Then you absolutely knew of this — you knew what was 
taking place ? ” 


410 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


“ I suspected. Digby had told me of his discovery. You 
need not mention it, Crichton, but our idea, had his life been 
spared, poor fellow, was to work it together.” 

“ That is strange,” said Crichton, “ for Mrs. Digby told us 
in this room that Digby wished Dickinson to have the 
papers.” 

This was absolutely news to Phillips, and he could not help 
biting his lips in dismay. After a little pause, he said : 

“That may have been so, for Dickinson’s love of science is 
well known. Nevertheless, Digby and I had many a talk over 
the matter, and at his death I offered to buy the medical notes 
from his widow. When she refused to sell them I guessed 
she was up to some mischief.” 

Somebody knocked at the consulting room door, and Crich- 
ton went to open it. When he returned, after saying a word 
or two to the messenger, Phillips said : 

“ I should like to go up to see the child, if you have no ob- 
jection, Crichton. You know how much attached both my 
wife and I are to her.” 

“My dear fellow, it is not for me to object,” said Crichton ; 
“ the unhappy mother is in the room, and she may not like it. 
Her wishes must be consulted, of course.” 

“ I think I can manage that part of the business,” said 
Phillips, with a low laugh. 

He turned to leave the room, and a few moments later 
tapped softly at the nursery door, which was slightly ajar. 

There was no response to his knock, and he stole into the 
partly darkened room. 

A shaded lamp was standing on a distant table, and a screen 
drawn round one side of the bed protected the light from the 
child’s eyes. 

She lay in precisely the same attitude as she had done two 
hours ago, when the great consulting physicians had visited 
her. Her head was thrown back, her breathing was quick, 
the intense pallor of one cheek and the fiery blush on the other 
were very perceptible. Beyond and above this appearance 
there was a pinched look about the small face which made it 
appear as though a blight had passed over it. 

No one with the least experience could look for a moment at 
the child and entertain a hope of her recovery. 

Phillips had always felt a certain tenderness of heart to- 
ward little Nance Digby. A time had been when he envied 
Digby and his wife the priceless treasure of a living child. 


ATONEMENT. 


411 


But when Digby died, his envy had vanished, although his 
love for the pretty, gentle, sweet child remained. 

The sight of her now, therefore, stricken down by a fell 
and remorseless fate, filled him with a sort of horror ; he for- 
got his own ambitions, the purpose which overmastered all his 
own life — he forgot everything but the mingling of anger and 
sorrow which tore his breast. 

Mrs. Digby was standing, upright and motionless, at the 
head of the bed. Phillips did not see her at first — his eyes 
were riveted on the child ; for quite a minute he did not 
glance at anything else. 

Cecilia looked steadily at him as he looked at Nance. She 
glided softly up at last, and laid her cold hand on his arm. 

“ See my work ? ” she said in a low tone. 

He started when she touched him, and shook her hand away 
with repulsion. 

She did not notice this action of his, but, moving her posi- 
tion a little, stood also gazing at the unconscious child. 

“ The doctors say,” she continued after a very long pause, 
“ that I have killed her. My only child ! My priceless 
treasure, killed by her mother’s hand \ It sounds very horri- 
ble, does it not ? ” 

“ It is very horrible,” said Phillips, moving a step away. 
“ How can you bring yourself to speak of it ? ” 

“ The speaking is so little,” she replied, “ it means so little 
compared to the feeling. Dr. Phillips, you earnestly desired 
to obtain possession of my husband’s discovery. Had I given 
it yon, you would have been the guilty person instead of me ; 
you would have killed many people instead of one. It would 
not have mattered in your case, for you are one of those 

licensed to kill. As for me ” she paused and pressed her 

hand to her heart. Phillips’s eyes began to flash a steely 
gleam of wrath. Before he could speak Mrs. Digby again 
touched his arm. 

“ Hush ! ” she said. “ You must not say cruel words to me 
in the presence of the child. You have your revenge. You 
see with your own eyes what I have done. Now go.” 

“ Mrs. Digby,” said Phillips suddenly, “ will you trust me 
even now, at the eleventh hour, with your discovery ? You 
need a friend at a time like this. Give me the papers, tell me 
where I can get them, and I’ll see you through.” 

“ Through what ? ” 

Before Phillips could say anything more, Mrs. Crichton and 


412 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


a nurse came into the room. Cecilia returned to her old post 
by the head of the bed. Phillips was forced to go away. 

“ Crichton,” he said on the stairs, “ I have seen the child ; 
the sight of that child’s changed face is a horrible one. It is 
a miracle to me how that woman can keep her reason. The 
child cannot possibly live many days.” 

“ Arbuthnot scarcely gives her days” responded Crichton. 

“ There will be a difficulty about the certificate of death,” 
said Phillips, in a low tone. 

“ I know,” answered Crichton, in a whisper ; “ but a coroner’s 
inquest must be avoided. I will talk the matter over with you 
presently, Phillips. You will take Mrs. Digby’s part, will you 
not ? ” 

“ I cannot say. She has been most culpable. My blood 
boils when I think of the child.” 

Crichton said a word or two more, and soon afterward the 
two men parted for the night. 

Dorothy, up in the nursery, was standing by her friend’s 
side. 

There are times in life when the person you call your friend 
stands in the same room with your body — your living, breath- 
ing, suffering body — and yet is a thousand miles away from 
the spirit which animates it. 

Cecilia seemed to herself to be divided by a gulf deep as 
hell from all her friends to-night. 

Dorothy spoke to her, and she replied. Her words were 
collected and quiet. There were no tears in her eyes and no 
emotion in her manner. 

Arrangements were made for the night. Dorothy, worn 
out with excitement and grief, went to bed at last. 

The nurse lay down in the dressing room within call, and 
Cecilia and the dying child were alone. 

Mother and child — such a holy relationship — nothing higher 
on this earth, nothing closer, nothing more tender, nothing 
nearer the divine ! 

The mother knelt down and leant over the child. When 
she did so a faint warmth seemed to come back into her frozen 
soul. 

All the world would be against her forever, now. She had 
done something which no man could ever forgive, but she 
knew that the child herself would understand and forgive. 

“ My little darling ! ” she murmured. “ You can’t hear me, 
for you are too near the white spirits and the white throne. 


ATONEMENT. 


413 


You are close to the city of God — I feel that I shall never see 
you again. Is that true ? Shall I never see her again ? If I 
thought it ! ” Cecilia sprang suddenly to her feet ; her calm 
was broken up. It was with the utmost difficulty she could 
keep herself from speaking aloud, and so bringing the nurse 
on the scene. 

“ God ! ” she said, looking up and speaking in a sort of in- 
ward frenzy, “I will patiently submit to any punishment you 
like to inflict upon me for the whole of my natural life if 
you will let me have the child again in another world ! I 
disobeyed my husband, I broke a promise to the dying ; I did 
a desperate and dangerous thing, and although some lives were 
apparently saved, yet the life of my only child is being taken 
away. But I must have her back in the world beyond the 
grave. What can I do for you, God, great God Almighty ? 
What can I do to appease your wrath ? ” 

Cecilia began to pace softly up and down the room. Her 
footsteps were light ; they made no sound. No boards 
creaked as she walked backward and forward. She was in 
a long white dressing gown, and she looked like a ghost in the 
uncertain light. 

The nurse in the other room awoke, and, bending forward, 
saw Mrs. Digby pacing up and down. 

She knew what had happened, and, murmuring to herself, 
“ Poor thing ! I shouldn’t wonder if she turned crazy,” re* 
sumed her interrupted sleep. 

The sight was tragic, no doubt, but she was accustomed to 
sadness and tragedy. She could scarcely afford to quarrel 
with them, for they were the means by which she earned her 
daily bread. 

Mrs. Digby continued to pace up and down. The dying 
child breathed quickly ^on the bed ; from time to time she 
gave an unearthly, piercing shriek, called by physicians the 
hydrocephalic cry. When she did so the mother came up and 
looked at her, wetted her lips with some cordial, and gently 
rearranged the bedclothes. All the time thoughts kept surg- 
ing through her brain. 

The child would die. She knew enough of medicine, she 
had dipped sufficiently into medical science, she had seen too 
many sicken and die, to have any doubt on that point. 

But could she do anything to appease the wrath of God, 
so that she might have the child back again for her very own 
in eternity? 


414 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


As she pondered over this problem, and struggled to obtain 
a clew to guide her out of this darkness, the memory of an old 
Bible story came back to her. 

It was the horrible story of Achan, who, in a moment of 
temptation, had taken of the “ accursed thing.” By Joshua’s 
orders, Achan and all belonging to him had been stoned and 
afterward burned ; but before his death the stern captain of 
Israel’s hosts had said to him, “My son, give, I pray thee, 
glory to the Lord God of Israel, and make confession unto 
him.” Achan did so, the accursed thing was done away, and 
God’s anger was appeased. The Lord turned himself from 
the fierceness of his anger. 

Achan was, doubtless, punished in the flesh, but there was 
a gleam of hope that the moment of confession brought 
absolution to his stricken soul. 

It flashed through Mrs. Digby’s worn and excited brain 
now that her husband’s papers were as the accursed thing to 
her. If she burnt them all now, as she ought to have done 
years ago, the angry God who was pouring his judgments 
upon her might be appeased. 

She stood still when this thought came to her, clasping her 
hands tightly together. It seemed to her, when the thought 
occurred, as if the mocking voices that had filled the chamber 
of death all night were hushed. There was a stillness after a 
great tumult. Thousands of angry spirits were still looking 
at her, but they no longer spoke words of accusation. 

She went over to the window, and looked up at the sky, 
which she knew by now must be growing pale in the dawn- 
ing east. Over her worn face there flickered a faint smile. 

“ I’ll do it, God,” she cried. “ It is not your will that the 
terrible disease of consumption should die out of the earth. 
I have believed in my husband’s remedy, and have used it in 
a full belief. I did wrong to use it, and you are punishing 
me in the most awful way in which a woman with a heart 
like mine could be punished ; but if I burn the papers, you 
will know that I repent. The accursed thing will be gone — 
gone forever — and you will let me have the child again when 
my earthly life is over. Yes, I will make atonement.” 

She went over to the bed, pressed her lips two or three 
times on the child’s forehead, to'ok one of the little hands be- 
tween both her own, went down on her knees as if she were 
about to pray for a blessing on the flickering life, found that 
no prayer would arise, and got up again. 


ATONEMENT. 


415 


She was not many moments changing her dress ; then, in 
her bonnet and cloak, she went into the room where the nurse 
was sleeping. 

“ Nurse,” she said, “ you must get up and sit with the 
child.” 

The nurse started. She sat up on the bed, and stared at 
Mrs. Digby in bewilderment. 

“ Are you going out, madam ? ” she asked in an astonished 
voice. 

“ I am ; but I shall be back again before very long. Sit 
by the child’s bed till I return.” 

Then she went downstairs, and let herself out, as she had 
done two nights ago, into the street. 

The sun was rising now, but Hartrick Street was still very 
quiet. Shutters were up at all the windows ; the sun was 
awake, but people still slept. 

Cecilia walked very quickly. The sense of hush was still 
present with her ; it comforted and supported her. The very 
fact of the closed shutters, and the houses full of human 
beings all folded away in sleep, added to the sense of un- 
natural calm in which she lived and moved. 

Her walk occupied her nearly an hour, but at last she reached 
her destination — a shabby corner house at the end of a 
shabby street. Cecilia noticed a thin, overgrown girl crouching 
down on the steps by the door. She thought she knew the girl’s 
face, but was not sure. As she approached, the child started, 
peered anxiously at her, sprang to her feet, uttered a joyful 
sort of whoop, and disappeared round the corner. 

Mrs. Digby felt a passing wonder, but her mind was too 
preoccupied to notice the incident for more than a minute. 

She took a latchkey from out of her pocket and fitted it 
into the lock of the hall door. It was an understood thing 
between her and her landlady that the door should always be 
kept on the latch ; she was surprised, therefore, now, when it 
resisted her pressure. For a moment she hesitated, then 
rang the bell at the side, which tinkled feebly. 

She did not expect this faint summons to be attended to, 
and was almost startled when, in a moment or two, the door 
was opened by the landlady, who was fully dressed, and had 
the appearance of a woman who had not gone to bed all 
night. 

“ Thank the good Lord, ma’am, you has come ! ” she ex- 
claimed the moment she saw Cecilia. She drew her into the 


416 


TEE MEDICINE LADY. 


house with almost violence, slammed the door behind her, 
and instantly bolted and barred it. 

Mrs. Digby was in too stunned a state to notice the action. 
She said in a low voice, “ I want to go to my sitting room, 
Mrs. Walters. I have something to do there ; I shall not be 
very long.” 

“Dear heart!” said Mrs. Walters, “it’s the good Lord 
that has sent you back. Before you does anything else, you 
must come up and see little Anne, Mrs. Digby. She was bet- 
ter until last night, but all night long she has been feverish 
and porety, and crying out for you like mad. I kep’ ’er as 
quiet as I could, but my man wanted me to send for Dr. 
Hudson. I jist wouldn’t, though ; I waited and waited, hop- 
ing as she’d cool down, or that you’d come, for I says, ‘If 
Mrs. Digby comes, she’ll give her another dose, and then 
she’ll be all right.’ ” 

“ I’ll go and see the child,” said Cecilia. 

She w~ent up the rickety stairs, entered the room where the 
sick child lay, ordered some simple alleviative, and came 
down again. 

“ You’ll use the medicine before you go, Mrs. Digby ? ” 
whispered the mother ; “ it won’t be a certain cure un- 
less you use it again.” 

“I shall not use it again, Mrs. Walters. Your little girl’s 
symptoms are not alarming. I can do nothing further for 
her. If I have helped to stave off consumption, be thankful ; 
if not ” The words died on her lips. 

There was a noise in the street — a trampling of many feet, 
a harsh laugh, and then the ponderous sound of a heavy 
knock against the hall door. 

“ Sakes alive ! ” said the woman. Her face turned white. 
She rushed to the nearest window and peeped out. “ Why, 
I didn’t think they’d come at this hour,” she said ; “ there are 
ten or twelve of them here already — men and women, and 
gals and boys ! — and it not yet six in the morning ! They 
has come for you, ma’am. There’s no doubt on that p’int. 
There’s something up in Naylor Street; a child as has died 
of the erysipelas in Hodge’s Court ; and they has been back 
and forrards for you all yesterday evening. Back and forrards 
they was, till I was weary going to the door and answering 
them, and quieting ’em, too, for that matter, for the woman 
whose child died come along and said awful things. That 
was why I bolted and barred the door, for I thought they 


ATONEMENT. 


417 


boded no good coming in crowds like that, and the woman, 
poor soul, cry in’ so bitter piercin’. How they got to know 

where you lived passes my belief, but Oh, hark to ’em 

now ! Why, they’ll bring the house down ! I’d best go and 
quiet ’em ! I’ll say you’re not here and not likely to be, and 
I’ll send Bobby the back way for the police if they don’t go 
quietly home at once.” 

“No, don’t do anything of the kind, Mrs. Walters. Say 
that I am here, that I am particularly engaged for a few 
moments, but that if they will quietly wait I will be with 
them very soon.” 

“ You’ll never go out to ’em, will you? An unruly, master- 
ful crowd like that ? Why, it aint safe.” 

“ Yes, it is safe enough. Go and say what I tell you. Don’t 
open the door, for your own sake. Call to them from the 
window. Tell them to have patience, and I will soon be with 
them.” 

Cecilia turned away. She opened the door of her sitting 
room and went in. The sitting room was on the first floor 
of the house. The blinds were drawn down at the two 
windows, but the full daylight streamed in through many 
crevices. 

There were more and more voices in the street, more and 
more footsteps. The noise kept surging and dying away like 
the ebb and flow of a tide. 

Mrs. Digby pressed her hand for a moment to her head. 
She forgot that there were people waiting for her in the street. 
She only thought that the angry spirits were using their voices 
once again to lash and torment her. 

A spasm of great agony crossed her face. 

“ Oh, merciful God ! ” she cried aloud, “ keep the voices of 
those avenging spirits quiet until my task is done, or I shall 
lose my senses ! ” 

She went over to the fireplace. A fire was laid in the grate; 
she sometimes needed one for her preparations. She put a 
match to it, and it soon blazed merrily. Then, approaching 
the incubator, she removed its contents one by one and laid 
them on the flames. Some little glass vials shared the same 
fate, and then followed the burning and destroying of the 
papers. 

Her task occupied her, in all, not more than twenty minutes. 
When the last paper was burnt, the last note in her husband’s 
clear writing reduced to gray ashes, she heaved a sigh of 


418 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


relief and went to the window. Her impulse was to open it 
and take in a draught of air. A wonderful load was lifted 
from her mind, and she wanted the reviving influences of the 
fresh air now to act upon her body. It seemed to her as if, 
in some miraculous way, she had once more got into touch 
with her dead husband and her dying child. 

She stretched out her hands to draw up the Venetian blind, 
which shut away both air and sunlight, when a cry, harsh and 
angry, sounded on her ears. 

It was the piercing, quavering cry of a woman. 

The coarse words uttered were these: 

“ Tell the Medicine Lady that ef she don’t come out at 
once I’ll go myself and drag her limb from limb.” 

Cecilia took one peep through the crevices of the blind, 
then she stepped back into the room. 

She felt calm and collected now at last, for she realized her 
position. The narrow street was thronged with an angry, 
excited mob, and they wanted her. She was in physical danger. 
The knowledge instantly braced every nerve. 

She had removed her bonnet and cloak when she first 
entered the room, and she did not put them on. She unlocked 
the door of her room and stood on the landing. 

Mrs. Walters was there, cowed, trembling, with a face like 
death. 

“ You mustn’t go out to them, ma’am,” she said. “ They’re 
mad about somethink, and some of them are quite desp’rit. 
There’s no saying what they may do ef you show yourself, 
ma’am. They say you have poisoned as many as you have 
cured; and there’s that woman whose child died yesterday — 
the poor soul is nearly off her head. You must hide, Mrs. 
Digby; you mustn’t show yourself. My husband has slipped 
out the back way for the police, and Bobby, he’s barricading 
the front door. Oh, merciful heavens ! he’ll never hold it, 
though. Do you hear ’em ? They’re all forcing up agen it ! 
They’ll break it in in a minute or two.” 

“ Let me go,” said Cecilia, wrenching herself away from 
the woman’s hands. “ Do you think I know what fear is ? 
Something happened to me last night, and I passed the stage 
where fear can be met. I promised to go to the people. If 
they want me they have a right to me.” 

She went downstairs, pushed the terrified Bobby aside, 
and, removing the chains and bars from the hall door, flung it 
open. 


ATONEMENT. 


419 


Her action was so sudden and unexpected that a woman 
and a child both tumbled forward into the passage. Cecilia 
stooped to pick up the child. It was a toddling creature of 
not two years old. She placed it in its mother’s arms. 

Then she came herself and stood on the steps of the house. 

They were tall steps, and she was able to look down on the 
sea of upturned faces. Her own face was still and pale, her 
heart beat in slow and heavy throbs. 

There was a sort of grand calmness about her, as though she 
had passed through death and knew the very worst that life 
could offer. 

Her fearlessness, the expression of her face, had the usual 
effect upon the crowd. They fell back, all their angry 
voices hushed for the moment. 

They waited for Mrs. Digby to speak. Even the woman 
with the shrill, quavering voice — the woman whose child was 
lying dead in Hodge’s Court — ceased to scream for vengeance 
on the Medicine Lady. 

“ What can I do for you, you poor souls ? ” said Cecilia at 
last. 

There was a thrill of such pity in her voice that it went 
through the hearts of some of the men and caused several 
women to cry. 

“ Do you want any more of my medicine ? ” continued 
Cecilia, when no one replied to her first words. 

A horrible babel and jargon of sounds began now. Revela- 
tions came pouring out on the morning breeze ; the men and 
the women spoke together ; a baby began to cry ; a boy 
punched a smaller bo} 7 ’s head. 

The upshot of all the words was this : Little Ben Priestley 
had died from the effects of the cure. He had died in dread- 
ful suffering, and when his mother went to look for the 
Medicine Lady she was nowhere to be found. Little Ben was 
a merry child a fortnight ago ; he had a cough, of course — 
most of the children in Hodge’s Court had coughs — and in the 
winter little Ben, as well as the others, had spit up blood. 
But he was laughing and gay a fortnight ago, and now he 
was dead ; he had died of erysipelas, and his mother was 
nearly crazy. 

Then there was Susy Larkins — she was worse instead of 
better ; and Hugh Deeling, who was supposed to be quite 
cured a short time back — his cough had returned. What did 
the Medicine Lady mean? Where was the thing to end? 


420 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Was she poisoning the folks instead of curing them ? Some 
people said she was a witch, and that the devil sent her to 
them instead of God. Of course, they had broken their vows, 
and had met together and talked the matter over, and now 
they had come for an explanation. 

Would she come back with them, and try the cure once 
again on Susy Larkins and Hugh Deeling ? Would she come 
that very moment? Would she try the cure again, and let 
the restoration to health of these two be a test to the people 
whether she were of God or of the devil ? 

“ Ho, I will not come,” said Mrs. Digby. 

Her words were scarcely spoken before a boy sprang out of 
the crowd, ran up the steps, and stood by her side. 

“ Look yere,” he said, “ you sees me, all on yer. I’m Church- 
yard Billy. Didn’t I hack jest, and didn’t I spit blood ? And 
warnt 1 getting ready for the worms, fast as boy could? 
Look at me ! Why, I’m fat ! There aint no waste in me, not 
a bit on it. I’m plump, like a fat partridge. Do I cough ? 
Have I a pain in my side like a sword ? You tell me that, 
neighbors. You all knows me, since I war a kid. Church- 
yard Billy I war, and Churchyard Billy I’d be now in my coffin 
but for her. She cured me and I sez, ‘ Bless the Medicine 
Lady / ’ There aint never a doctor as cures all the folk, and 
I sez, ‘ Bless her ! ’ ” 

“ What about Cough-away-Patty ? ” screamed a voice. 

The boy was about to reply when Cecilia turned and looked 
at him. She touched him on the arm, and said gently : 

“ Thank you, Billy.” 

Then she faced the crowd. 

“Listen to me,” she said ; “I have something to say. Do 
your worst afterward, but listen to me first. 

“ My husband, Dr. Digby — some of you remember my hus- 
band ; you do, James Ashton ; I see you in the crowd — he sat 
up with you the whole of one night — well, my husband, Dr. 
Digby, thought a great deal about you all. The thought of 
you lay against his heart ; the thought of you made him suffer. 
Then he set his brains to work — he had wonderful brains, clear 
and strong and vigorous — and when these brains of his worked 
hard in your behalf, a thought was given to him. The thought 
grew bigger and bigger, and at last it took form in the cure 
which I have used on you. Dr. Digby made the medicine, 
but — my poor people, I have a confession to make to you — he, 
with his strong and tender heart, and his great brain, was 


ATONEMENT. 


421 


afraid of his own medicine. He saw you dying, as you all 
will go on dying, of consumption, and he feared to try his 
cure on you. He died in the prime of his life. Some of you 
know how suddenly he was called to die. On his dying bed 
he spoke of this medicine to me. He said to me, 4 Burn the 
medicine ! Put the papers that tell all about it into the lire ! ’ ” 

Here Mrs. Digby was interrupted by some cries in the crowd. 
A woman shouted out “ For shame ! ” apd a man, raising his 
hand to claim attention to himself, remarked in a firm voice, 
“ I got a sight of good from that medicine ! I’m hale and 
hearty now, and I sez ‘ Bless the Medicine Lady ! ’ I ’grees 
with Churchyard Billy. I sez ‘ God bless her ! ’ 

“ But God did not bless me, my friends,” said Cecilia. 
“ Listen, all of you, I have more to say. 

“ My husband died, and I went to burn the papers. I could 
not burn them : perhaps he foresaw this, for he also said tome, 
on his deathbed, ‘ If you will not burn the papers, take them 
to a friend of mine, a good, clever doctor, and give them into 
his charge.’ I did not do this either. I could not do it. I 
thought the doctor would put those precious papers into a 
drawer and forget them, and the people would still die. 

“ One day there came to me a temptation. I was ill, and a 
doctor told me that I was threatened with consumption. I 
had read my husband’s papers many times, until the meaning 
of all his thoughts seemed burnt into my brain, and when I 
knew that I was so ill I determined to use the medicine on 
myself. 

“ I did. I injected it into this arm — once, twice, three 
times. In six weeks I was well. 

“ A girl, a very dear friend of mine, was dying of the same 
disease. 

“ I tried the remedy on her, and she, too, recovered. She 
is a happy married woman now, in perfect health. 

“ Then I took rooms in this place, and went among you all, 
and saw your sufferings, and the ravages consumption makes 
every day, and the thought of the medicine burnt deeper 
and deeper into my soul. And at last I tried it on a child 
here — Fannjr Severn was her name — and the child got well. 
By slow degrees I tried it on one person and on another, and 
at last there came to be a silent sort of rage for it, and a great 
fierce belief in it, and you all loved me and blessed me, and 
followed my footsteps day and night. 

“ What have I done to change you ? Why have you come 


422 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


here, filling up the street and hurling angry words at me ? X 
have cured many of you. Why have you come here to insult 
me, and to frighten the poor woman in whose house I lodge ?” 

“ What about little Ben Priestley ?” called out the mother 
in a voice of frenzy. 

“Ah, yes; what about little Ben ? I did not cure little Hen. 
My friends — no, I won’t call you my friends — my poor, poor 
people, whom from my soul I pity, whom from my soul I 
have loved, I will say one thing first, in self-defense, and then 
I will tell you why you have come to curse my work among 
you this day. It was very wrong of me to use that medicine, 
but I did not do it with a wrong motive. I used that medi- 
cine in perfect faith in its power to save you. I believed in 
it, as I do that there is a God in heaven, and that there is a 
devil turning the world every day into hell. I believed in the 
remedy, and I used it in full belief, and in most tender pity 
for you all.” 

“ That you did, lady ! ” said a poor girl, coming forward 
and bursting into tears. “ I’ll never forget what my cough 
war, and the blessing of lying down at night and never hack- 
ing once.” 

“ But,” continued Mrs. Digby, scarcely noting this fervent 
interruption, “ I know why you have come to-day. Because 
God has cursed me. His curse is so dreadful that yours seems 
like nothing. He does not wish me to use the cure. He 
says it is too mighty for me. I have stolen it from scientific 
men. I am an ignorant woman, and I must not try it any 
more. God has taught me this lesson in the most awful way 
in which it could be taught to a mother. 

“ I have a child — one beautiful, brave, noble child. Two 
nights ago I used the remedy on her, and she now lies at the 
point of death. Mrs. Priestley, my child and your little Ben 
will soon meet each other in the world of spirits. The medi- 
cine has killed my own child. 

“ I have nothing more to say. I must go back to my dying 
child now. Make way for me, good people.” 

There was a little hush and pause in the crowd. The look 
on Mrs. Digby’s face subdued everyone. 

She was about to descend the steps and pass through the 
midst of the quiet and sorrowful people, when a man at the 
far end of the mob suddenly exclaimed : 

“I b’lieves in the medicine still. It’s doin’ me a sight of 
good, and I wants a second dose.” 


ATONEMENT. 


423 


Instantly several other voices joined this man’s. 

The Medicine Lady must come back again without delay to 
the slums and back alleys and administer some more of the 
cure. 

“ Oh, yes ! Down with the doctors ! Down with the men 
of science, who were afraid to help poor, suffering humanity ! 
The Medicine Lady and her grand cure for ever and ever ! ” 

After the fickle way of crowds, the people were all now 
blessing the lady, and declaring there was no medicine in the 
world like hers. 

There was a pause at last in the buzz of voices, a brief 
respite in the violent jostling and commotion. Cecilia took 
advantage of this silence to speak again. 

“ I can never help you any more,” she exclaimed. “ I did 
wrong, and God cursed me. I could not live under his curse ; 
his frown was more than I could bear. 

“ I have burned all the papers that my husband left, and 
destroyed the medicine. That medicine can never make any 
of you either better or worse again.” 

A howl followed this explanation. 

“ I will come back and talk to you about this another 
day,” continued Mrs. Digby. “ I will try and persuade a 
really good and clever doctor to come with me, to see and to 
help "those of you who are ill. I inyself will nurse you, too, 
oh, gladly ! day and night ; but let me pass now, for I want 
to be with my dying child.” 

“ No, that we won’t,” suddenly shrieked a woman. “ We 
won’t let you move from here until you gives us back the med- 
icine. We don’t b’lieve that story of yourn — the beautiful 
medicine dint burnt. I don’t b’lieve it for one— I don’t b’lieve 
that ere tale. It’s a cock and bull sort o’ tale, and I don’t swaller 
it ; you’re tellen it to cheat us. You’re feared, that’s wot you 
ere. You think the doctors ’ull be down on you. Ef it is 
gospel true that you put that medicine on the fire I’ll curse you 
here as I stand, sure as my name is Jane Raglan. Why, you 
was savin ’ my Billy with the medicine, and now you say the 
beautiful cure is in the flame. Oh, curse you ! curse you ! 
curse you ! ” The angry woman’s tones rose to fury. Before 
anyone could stop her, she stooped, picked up a stone, and 
sent it flying through the air. It hit Cecilia on her temple, 
making a slight wound. 

She put up her hand to wipe away the blood. 

“ Oh ! go into the house, do do / ” gasped Churchyard 


424 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


Billy. “ She’s mad, and she’ll hurt yer ; but she aint as mad 
as the mother o’ little Ben. Look at her ! Hark to her ! 
She means mischief. Oh, come inter the house ! ” 

The words had scarcely left the boy’s lips before a wild cry 
— the horrible, unmistakable shriek of the insane — rang 
through the air. Mrs. Priestley had come stealthily round the 
outer edge of the crowd. Now, with the sudden spring of a 
tigress, she leaped up the steps. 

“ Take that for p’isoning and killin’ my pretty Ben,” she 
gasped. 

A knife flashed in the sunshine ; it made a wound with a 
sure aim ; the warm lifeblood spurted out, and Mrs. Digby, 
stabbed to the heart, sank on the ground. 

CHAPTER X. 

WHERE MANY ROADS MEET. 

A dead child lay in the old nursery at Hartrick Street. A 
dead child with a sweet smile round her lips ! A sunbeam 
stole in through a chink in the closed window blinds, and 
kissed the childish mouth. 

“ How am I to break it to Cecilia ? ” sobbed Dorothy. 
“ Why was she not there to see her child die ? How will she 
bear this fearful news ? ” 

“ Where can Mrs. Digby be ? ” inquired Crichton. “ The 
nurse says she went out between live and six this morning. 
She has never come back. Does anyone know where she is 
likely to be ? ” 

“ I have her address,” said Phillips, who was standing in 
the room. 

Dorothy raised her face, and looked at him in surprise. 

“Yes,” he continued, meeting her gaze steadily; “the 
address came accidentally into my possession. I will go to 
her, if you wish, and tell her what has happened.” 

“ I will go with you,” said Dorothy. 

“ No, my love,” interrupted her husband. “ The scene will 
be too painful for you. Phillips and I will go together.” 

“ Nothing can be too painful for me to do for Cecilia’s sake,” 
answered Dorothy with passion. “ You all say hard and 
bitter things of her now, but she saved my life. I was in hell, 
and she brought me back to peace, to heaven, to God. You 
are all cruel to her, but I shall always love her best of any 
woman on earth.” 


WHERE MANY ROADS MEET. 


425 


“ I have one raj of comfort to give her,” said Crichton. 
“ Arbuthnot has been here this morning. We have been going 
carefully into the past history of little Nance’s health, and 
Arbuthnot is firmly convinced that all that Mrs. Digby did 
when she used that fatal lymph, which clearly acted as a blood- 
poisoner, was to hasten the end by a few weeks. The child 
would, in any case, have died from tubercular meningitis.” 

“Let us go to Cecilia,” said Dorothy. “This news will 
lift something from her mind. Let us find her as soon as 
possible.” 

As they were driving to the lodgings, Phillips made a 
remark : 

“ There will be no coroner’s inquest then, Crichton ? ” 

“ I am thankful to say there will not,” was the short reply. 
Crichton’s dislike to Phillips, always a latent quality, began 
now to take active form. 

After a silence of some moments, Phillips said again : 

“ One of our first objects must be to get hold of those valu- 
able paj^ers.” 

“ That is Dickinson’s affair,” replied Crichton. There was 
something in his tone which made Phillips fall back on his seat 
in the carriage and not speak again. 

At last they reached the lodgings. The crowd had dis- 
persed, the street was nearly empty. 

“ I am afraid,” said Dorothy, suddenly turning very white. 
“ How can I break these tidings to Cecilia ? ” 

Crichton put his head out of the window. The street was 
empty, it is true, but a policeman was standing on the steps 
of the house. He touched his hat to Crichton, came down, 
and said something in a very low voice. 

“ Stay where you are for a moment, Dorothy,” said her 
husband. “Phillips, there is something wrong here. Will 
you come in ? ” 

The two men entered the house. The policeman followed 
them. The door stood a little ajar. 

Dorothy sat in the carriage, her hands locked tightly to- 
gether, her heart beating wildly. What was wrong ? What 
had the policeman said ? Was this really the house to which 
Cecilia had moved ? Was she there, and was Phillips inside 
speaking cruel words to her ? 

“I won’t stand it,” said Dorothy to herself. “Why do 
they keep me outside ? I will go in. Once she stood be- 
tween me and death, now I’ll stand between her and the angry, 


426 


THE MEDICINE LADY. 


bitter world. She is my dearest friend, my best friend, for 
she gave me back to life.” 

Dorothy sprang out of the carriage, ran up the steps, and 
entered the house. 

Some people were standing in the hall. A queer looking, 
ragged boy was crying as if his heart would break. 

“ Does Mrs. Digby live here ? ” asked Dorothy. 

The boy pointed with his hand to the first floor. 

There were several people lining the stairs, but they made 
way for Mrs. Crichton as she ran past them. 

She reached the first landing, and saw Phillips standing by 
a door which was partly open. 

“ Don’t go in,” he said, stretching out his hand to bar her 
entrance. 

“ What is the matter ? ” she asked. Then she looked into 
his face, and something in its expression froze any further 
words on her lips. 

Crichton was standing just inside the room. 

With a sudden, quick movement Dorothy rushed past 
Phillips and went to his side. 

“ Yes, Dorothy,” he said gravely, “ you can see your friend. 
You have no bad tidings to break to her.” 

He took his wife’s hand as he spoke, and led her up to a 
hard, horse hair sofa. 

A woman was lying there ; she was stretched out still and 
flat ; her hands were folded over her breast. 

Dorothy looked down at the strangely quiet face, and then 
she understood. 

That worn face wore now a look of amazed and yet of ex- 
ceeding joy. 

Cecilia Digby had passed at a single step beyond death and 
separation. 


THE END. 

































































































































































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